The Box
by kate221b
Summary: A teenage Sherlock wakes up in a hospital room with no memory of how he got there. Is it a conspiracy, or is he really ill?
1. Chapter 1

Slowly, cautiously, he opened his eyes. His head was throbbing, his mouth dry; something was stopping his left arm from moving freely. Blinking to focus, he registered the plastic tube linked to it. Panicking slightly he closed his eyes again, squeezing them shut as if he could erase the image.

He had no memory of where he was or how he had got here. Almost painfully he forced his brain into motion; it felt slow, rusty even, as if it needed a good dose of oil, like his bicycle when he had left it out in the rain. What did he know? He was lying in a bed with crisp white sheets. He reached out a tentative foot to explore them with his toe. Yes, starched thick cotton sheets, a hospital then maybe. The drip in his arm suggested that he was ill. He certainly felt ill. Apart from his head, his muscles ached as if he had run for hours through the woods at home; like the day that he had inadvertently strolled into a shoot on the neighbour's land. Lost in thought he had suddenly realised that he was on the wrong side of a line of men, with rifles aimed towards him. Half-hidden by the tree-line, any sudden movement could easily be mistaken for a bird before they realised that this mammal didn't have wings. He had run for several miles, heart pounding, before he had rationalised events enough to slow down and acknowledge that these men were shooting birds not teenage boys, and were unlikely to be pursuing him.

He opened his eyes again, cautiously, squinting against the bright light. Hospital room, yes, good. He had been correct. Bedside cabinet, empty of anything other than a plastic cup of water with a straw. Why the straw? He must have been more ill than he thought. Where were his things? He was never without a book, why were there no books here? Chair in the corner, nothing else. The light from the window suggested that it was late afternoon or early evening. What time of year was it, and why couldn't he remember? Fighting back panic again he observed the light coming through the window. He couldn't see any trees, but it was dappled, leaves on the trees then, but not warm enough for summer. Spring then, late spring, April or the first few weeks or May maybe.

He jumped as the door softly clicked opened and a nurse in a white uniform came into the room. 'Hello Sherlock,' she said, 'nice to see you awake. We didn't think that you were ever going to wake up.' He winced at the word 'nice'; horrible word, insipid, meaningless, but decided to let it go this time. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn't remember who she was, or where he had met her before.

He frowned at her, trying to find the memories, so carefully filed and stacked to make them easily accessible. He had spent hours, days working on his memory storage facility, but it was gone, part erased, part shuffled, as if a burglar had entered his head when he slept and swept all of the files into one chaotic heap of information on the floor.

'How are you feeling? Headache?'

He started to nod and then groaned as the throbbing in his head increased exponentially. 'Yes,' he whispered, instead. His voice sounded croaky, as if from disuse. His throat was sore too, he realised, and his mouth was dry, so dry. His lips cracked, his tongue coated and almost sticking to the roof of his mouth.

'Water?' the nurse asked, as if picking up on his discomfort. She was picking up on his discomfort, of course, that was what she was trained to do. Stupid, so stupid, and so slow. What was wrong with him?

The cup with a straw had appeared next to him, she had moved almost silently, and in this drowsy and slow state he hadn't even noticed. He, Sherlock Holmes, who noticed everything, who had been training himself for years to pick up sounds, sights, smells that other mere mortals did not, hadn't even heard her move across the room. Gratefully he drank, surprised when she took the cup away before he had finished.

'Not too much,' she said, 'you can have some more in a minute You're still recovering from the anaesthetic, don't want to make yourself sick. I'll go and get you some painkillers for that headache.' As the door clicked shut behind her, Sherlock struggled to assimilate this new information.

'Anaesthetic? This was new. An operation then? Why couldn't he remember? Cautiously he performed a mental inventory of his body, stretching his arms, legs, concentrating on his torso one piece at a time. Nothing hurt excessively other than his head. What had the operation been on then? Tentatively he raised a hand to check his head. Curly, uncontrollable black hair still there, no scar that he could find. Frowning he let his hand drop onto the bed again and stared at it. There were marks on the back of it, small scabs along the lines of veins, where previous intravenous drips had been inserted. Looking up his arm he noted fresh cotton wool in the crease of his elbow; recent blood test then. How long had he been ill for? He had no idea. He was wearing some kind of hospital gown, he was lying in a hospital bed. Where was his father? Where was Mycroft? Where, more to the point was his mother?

The thought of his mother made him feel physically sick. Pain and consuming sorrow flooded through him. Why? Dragging through the memories was like wading through mud. His mother was dead, he was sure, but how? Shuffling though the disordered stack, he found a memory of himself standing at a graveside with Mycroft, wearing a very grown up black overcoat, a trench-coat maybe, the first he had owned. He had rather liked it, he remembered. An unexpected bonus of the situation. Mycroft was standing next to him, close enough to reach out and touch, but of course he wouldn't do that. Neither of them found it easy to express emotion, neither of them liked physical contact, even now. His father was several feet away, an expression of fury on his face. What had his mother done to make his father so angry before her death?

Dead and gone then, the only person that he had ever felt close to. The woman who sang like an angel, but had a temper even worse than his fathers; who could fly into the most unpredictable rages at the smallest provocation. He had loved her and been terrified of her in equal measure, but he missed her more than he could bear. Curling himself into a ball, he tried very hard not to cry. His father said that men, or boys who were becoming men didn't cry, but the tears were starting to soak the pillow despite his best efforts. He stuffed his fist into his mouth to stop himself making a noise, just as he had when he was a skinny seven year old at boarding school for the first time. Twelve of them in a dormitory, half of them crying on any one night, and all trying to pretend that they were having the time of their lives, unable to confess their weakness, aware even then that emotion was not something to be proud of.

He was aware of the door opening, but could not stir himself enough to uncurl. A gentle hand on his shoulder. 'Still bad? Can you take these tablets?' He wanted them, the pounding in his head felt as if very thin, very long, silver knives were being forced into his brain again, and again, but his body refused to obey him. So he remained, curled in on himself, sobbing, unable to speak. Vaguely he had a memory that this had played out before. The soothing voice of the woman trying to persuade him to talk to her, to cooperate, him lying there, locked in on himself, unable not unwilling to obey. Even his body betraying him. He knew that she was talking, was grateful for her hand on his shoulder, for her presence, her calm, but her words had no meaning to him. They were sounds only, distant, empty. There was only the blackness and the fall, and his own pain.

The woman reached for his hand, initially he thought to hold it, then he felt a coldness sliding up his arm and realised that she had injected him with something. A sedative, he thought, as he slid into sleep, and not for the first time.

He was dimly aware in his sleep of people coming in and out of the room, of material being wrapped around his arm. A blood pressure cuff? Of the beeping of machinery, of voices trying to interact with him. Mycroft he thought had been there for a while, sitting very still and straight-backed next to his bed, but he was unable to respond to any of them. He lay very still, very quiet, cherishing the brief periods when he was able to think past the blackness, the rest of the time lost in the dark black mud of despair or the blissful emptiness of sleep. The plastic cup, the straw, the water, reappeared at regular intervals. Sometimes he drank, sometimes he didn't. When he didn't a soft sponge on a stick appeared, moistening his cracked lips and tongue.

Twice in those nightmare days, he was vaguely aware of being wheeled down a long corridor where the light were too bright into a large room filled with too many people. Deciding that ignorance was the best option, he squeezed his eyes shut as he was slid across onto a hard table. There were straps on the table he realised, but they didn't use them to strap him down. He was obviously though to be compliant with whatever torture they had lined up for him. Physical pain would be better than the mental pain, he thought dully, and who knows, maybe they would make a mistake and kill him, and that could only be a good thing.

But there was only a man with a kind face talking to him in words he could no longer understand, an oxygen mask over his face and a round-faced nurse holding his free hand as coldness spread up his arm again and he slid back into oblivion.


	2. Chapter 2

Waking some time later he found that that he had retained at least some of his memories from before. His head was pounding, his muscles aching. What had they done to him on that table to make him feel like this?

Click went the door, or rather buzz and then click. Interesting. Locked in then, but why? A prisoner? But who makes a sixteen year old boy a prisoner? Had he committed a crime, killed someone? His father? He dredged through the memories again. Nothing. He would have remembered it, surely?

The nurse from before was there by his bed, smiling at him. 'Headache?' she asked, and he nodded, forgetting the effect that had had last time. 'I came prepared,' she said, showing him a pot of tablets. 'Can you sit up?'

He tried, failed, and was grateful for her assistance and the electric bed. 'Your brother phoned,' she said, as she adjusted his pillows. 'He's coming to see you tomorrow.'

She held out the tablets one at a time, and with shaking hands he somehow managed to get them into his mouth and swallow them. Too many tablets to all be painkillers he realised. Other medication then, but why? He realised that he didn't care, and swallowed them all anyway.

'Good,' she smiled at him. 'Thats the first time you've taken medication in weeks.'

Weeks? This was new. Had he really been here that long? He wanted to ask her where he was, what was happening, but the words wouldn't come Instead he closed his eyes and let sleep creep over him, as he slipped into dreams.

He was running through the woods near his home; something or somebody was chasing him, crashing through the undergrowth. If it caught him, then he knew that something indescribably awful was going to happen. The air was burning in his lungs as he ran on and on. Maybe, just maybe, this time he could escape. Then he was tripping, falling sprawled onto a patch of dead leaves, rolling to try and evade the beast which was swiping for him with razor sharp claws and fangs dripping green slime. The beast that had his fathers face. The creature roared, 'Stay silent, you mustn't tell,' as he escaped, sweating and shaking into consciousness.

'Bad dream?' asked the man next to his bed, conversationally. How had he known?

'Yes,' Sherlock said shortly, cautiously, rubbing a shaking hand over his face and struggling to slow his breathing. Who was this man and why was he in his room? Was he even real? Recently he had seen many things, many people in that strange time between sleep and waking, many of them he had deduced couldn't possibly have been real. Green goblins, monsters, and his mother sitting by his bed, stroking his hand, telling him everything was going to be all right. All creatures of fairy tales now.

'Do you want to tell me about it?' the man asked after a pause, a pause Sherlock realised that was designed to allow him time to calm himself. Sherlock shook his head, remembering the monster's words to him.

'You will have to talk to me eventually you know Sherlock, ' the man was saying. 'If you want to get well, if you want to get home. The ECT should be working by now.'

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. ECT? He dredged his mind to try and find the connection. Electric shock treatment, used to treat severe mental disorder, Was he mad then? He didn't feel mad. He felt ill, exhausted, confused, but mad? No. A conspiracy maybe, by his enemies. Maybe he had solved some great crime and to stop him giving evidence or exposing them, his adversaries had made him appear mad to scramble his mind. That must have been what had happened. No point in letting on that he knew, though. Might as well get what information that he could.

'ECT?' he said slowly. He voice felt rusty, disused. How long had he been here, lying in this bed, not speaking, not moving, he wondered.

'Electro convulsive therapy,' the man explained calmly. 'You've been receiving it for severe depression, don't you remember?'

'I don't remember anything,' Sherlock said slowly. 'Everything is scrambled.'

'ECT can do that, but it was necessary to get you well.

'I'm not ill,' Sherlock said between gritted teeth.

'Aren't you? Then why are you lying in a hospital bed with an intravenous line in your arm?'

The man was calm, kind even. Sherlock focused on him, struggling far more than normal to see what he could deduce. He looked, he thought, like a father should look. Mid forties maybe, dark hair cut short, turning to salt and pepper at the sides, but still thick on top. Laughter lines around his eyes, a man more prone to joy than to anger then. Shirt, tie, work trousers, but not suit trousers, well-shined black shoes, a little worn on the heels, with laces that had been knotted but not yet replaced. This was one of the good guys, not one of the bad guys, he thought, and maybe, just maybe he could trust him.

'Do you know where you are?' the man asked slowly, kindly.

'No,' Sherlock said briefly.

'Then why don't you ask?'

'Where am I?' Sherlock said, his face expressing his contempt of being treated like a child. This was a pointless exchange of niceties. He didn't have time for this.

The man smiled slightly, showing his awareness of Sherlock's frustration. 'We are having a conversation, Sherlock,' he said, 'This is how it works. You ask me a question and I give you an answer, I cannot answer questions that you don't ask. It is a fair and open exchange of information between us. Agreed?'

Ah. Ground rules. This was starting to make sense.

'So, you asked me where you are. You are in an institution called Elmhurst. It is a Psychiatric Institution for children and adolescents with mental health problems. You are currently on our high dependency unit, reserved for those patients, or clients as they keep telling me that I have to call you now, who are most unwell, most at risk at self-harm.'

Sherlock was silent, assimilating the information. So his theory was correct. He was in a hospital, but a psychiatric hospital? Why? What had happened to bring him here?

'Now ask me why you are here, if you wish to know.'

'Why am I here?' Sherlock asked.

'Not because your enemies put you here under false pretenses to prevent you from divulging information known only to you, as you no doubt still believe. That is what we call paranoid ideation, part of the spectrum of illness which you came to us with. You are here because you have severe depression, with paranoia and auditory hallucinations. Initially we thought that you could be developing schizophrenia, but the diagnosis now is severe, psychotic depression.'

'I'm not psychotic,' Sherlock said, automatically.

'How do you know? Psychosis is when you believe things to be true that others do not. How do you know if what you believe is true?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, shut it again, then slowly said, 'So if I tell you that I believe I have been put here as part of a conspiracy then I am paranoid, and you will keep me here. If I tell you that I accept that I am ill then I am condemning myself to stay here anyway. Clever. I cant win, can I?'

'Is that what you think?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Maybe. Perhaps I would prefer not to tell you what I think.'

The man looked at him appraisingly. 'Shall we start again? My name, Sherlock, is James Harrison. I am a psychiatrist and psychotherapist here, and you can trust me.'

He held out a hand and Sherlock reluctantly shook it. 'Sherlock Holmes,' he said automatically, stupidly, he realised.'Pleased to finally meet you Sherlock Holmes,' James Harrison said with a smile. 'You have been here nearly four weeks and this is the first sensible conversation that we have had. I have heard a lot about the crime syndicate who has been pursuing you, about the voices of the detective inspector who you report to, about the spy ring in Albania you are trying to crack, but I don't feel as if I have met you until today.'

Sherlock closed his eyes in despair. All illusion and delusion then? All of it? All of the memories that he had been fighting so hard to recover, to retain. How tiresome. How very, very boring. What was the point then in continuing if he was, after all, just a sixteen year old boy, without a mother, with a father he despised, with few friends and little purpose.

'Don't give up, Sherlock,' James Harrison was saying softly. 'This is the point when you start to get well. You have a brilliant mind and an entire life ahead of you.'

'An entire life on medication, labelled as a psychopath, and with no memories?'

' I didn't say that you were a psychopath, you're not a psychopath. You had psychotic depression, that is different; that is treatable, psychopathy is not. Many people with mental illness go on to lead entirely normal lives, extraordinary ones even. A life on medication? Possibly, its too early to say. You may have one episode, be on medication for a few years and never suffer a relapse. You may need lifelong medication yes, but would that really be so bad? Diabetics take insulin, bipolar patients take lithium, its not so very different.'

'Bipolar? You think that I'm bipolar?'

'Not at the moment no, although it remains a possibility. I'm just using that as an example.'

He paused for a minute, allowing Sherlock time to process the information. Then asked, 'Has your memory been badly effected by the ECT? It is a side-effect sometimes, in some patients.'

'Everything is shuffled, my entire filing system destroyed. I can remember snatches of things, out of context and only with great effort. Years of work, destroyed by your electricity.'

'Do you believe that is a conspiracy too?'

'Wouldn't you?'

'I am not one of the bad guys, Sherlock.'

'Then stop acting like one.'

'Without the ECT you would almost certainly had died. We did it to save your life.'

Sherlock was confused now, and trying not to show it. Died, why? How?'

'Ask the question,' Dr Harrison reminded him gently.

'Why would I have died? Depression doesn't kill people.'

'Oh but it does. They try to take their own lives directly which you, interestingly, never did, or they do it the back way. They stop eating and drinking, they take to their beds, and eventually they die of dehydration, malnutrition, or secondary infection from inactivity, usually of what we call hypostatic pneumonia. The human body isn't designed to lie in a bed, Sherlock, its designed to be active.'

'I have a drip,' Sherlock said stubbornly, 'I don't need to drink. And I'm sure that you have ways of feeding people.'

'Yes, but neither is ideal, or without complications. Eventually you would have succumbed to either the complications of your condition, or of infection. Look at it from out point of view, why would we have allowed that to happen when we had a viable treatment option.'

'Frying my brain doesn't seem like a good option to me.'

'It has got you talking, it has got you taking medication, it has got you drinking, and more to the point it has got you to a state where you are no longer huddled in the bed, crying and talking to people who aren't there.'

Ah, that. He did vaguely remember that. It had been - like being trapped in the eighth circle of hell, relieved only by the cool spread of sedation up his arm.

James Harrison was watching his face. 'Better. Do you agree?'

He nodded, reluctantly. 'And my memories?'

'Should return, eventually, although you may never recover the recent memories of your admission here. That may, however, be for the best.'

Sherlock nodded, considering. 'When can I go home?'

'When you are well. When you no longer require sedation, when you accept that you are ill and can be trusted to take medication without coercion. When you engage with these sessions.'

'Am I not engaging now?'

'No,' Dr Harrison sighed, 'You are information gathering and exchanging, thats different.'

They sat in silence for a while, then a buzzer bleeped. 'Thats enough for one day,' Dr Harrison said. 'I'll be back to see you tomorrow. In the meantime try to start eating, or we'll have to start thinking about other options for getting some calories into you. The food here isn't great, but believe me its better than a tube down your nose.'

Sherlock winced. Brutal honesty he thought he had wanted, but that was a little too much like a threat for him.

Dr Harrison gauged his response and apologised. 'You have to accept the reality of your situations, Sherlock. you are a human being, whatever you are trying to turn yourself into. Human beings need regular food, drink and sleep. They need human interaction, You need to accept all of these to be well.'

No, Sherlock thought. I have to appear to accept all of these, then when I am home I can do as I choose as long as I hide it well. That is what Dr Harrison has just taught me. As long as I appear to be getting well then I can go home.


	3. Chapter 3

He lay there, trying to assimilate the information that he had just been given until he was interrupted by the nurse. The name badge attached by a plastic clip to her top pocket told him that her name was Sarah. 'Pins considered too dangerous?' he asked as she checked his blood pressure and adjusted the fluids running int his arm. She frowned, then followed his gaze to her pocket.

'Exactly, we're not allowed anything that could be used as a weapon. Thats a clever thing to work out. They said that you were very bright. You must be feeling better if you can process something like that.'

He shrugged. 'My mind is working at about five percent of its normal speed, but at least its working.'

Silently she held out a container of tablets. 'To stop it working?' he asked suspiciously.

'To get you well. To treat your illness.'

'To sedate me, you mean.'

'Partly, yes.'

'Why?'

'Because when the sedation wears off, the depression and the anxiety return. Do you remember?'

Sherlock had an image of himself shaking, curled into a ball, unable to fight the rising feeling of panic, wanting to tear off his own skin to escape from it. He remembered shouting out, screaming in panic, then running feet, people everywhere, arms holding him down and the cold spread of the medication sending him spiraling into oblivion.'

He swallowed convulsively. 'Yes, ' he whispered.

'And do you want to end up like that again?'

He shook his head.

'Then take the medication.'

He did as he was told. 'Good, now we're getting somewhere. Now, how about some food?'

He started to shake his head, then stopped, remembering Dr Harrison with his kind eyes and gentle voice, and his threats of a nasogastric tube. 'I'll try,' he said, levelly.

'Any requests?'

'Something I can eat without having to chew.' he said, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. If he had to eat he would rather not have to taste it, not have to think about it.

Soup arrived, and a bread roll. A glass of milk. He managed maybe half a dozen spoons of soup, and then tried to eat a mouthful of bread, but it turned to cardboard in his mouth. He choked, and washed it down with some of the milk.

'Is that enough?' he asked Sarah. 'Can I stop now?'

'Is that all you want?'

'Its not about what I want is it? Its about what I have to do to get home.'

'Its about what you have to do to get well.'

He shrugged. 'Maybe.'

'Its not enough, no, not enough to stop you from starving, but its a start, so its enough for today if you finish the milk.'

He downed the milk in one go, trying not to taste it, trying not to think, trying to make his body obey him, despite its protests and the voices whispering telling him that it was a conspiracy, that they were trying to poison him. 'I have to do this to escape,' he told them silently, 'to get out of here, its the only way.' His stomach felt stretched by even the tiny amount he had eaten. How long had it been since he had eaten a proper meal he wondered for his stomach to have shrunk so much that it was stretched by a few spoonfuls of soup and a glass of milk? Surreptitiously he looked at his arms. He had always been thin, but now the bones of his elbows jutted out, and his upper arms had lost all of the little muscle that they used to have. A while, he guessed.

'You've lost a lot of weight,' Sarah told him, watching his observations. 'Too much. It will take time to put it back on again.'

Enough talking, he thought. Enough people, and silently closed his eyes and turned towards the wall, hoping she would take the hint.

He heard the noise of the tray being cleared and the door clicking shut behind her. Minutes later he was asleep.

...

When he opened his eyes again a figure that looked awfully like Mycroft was sitting beside his bed. He quickly closed his eyes again, hoping that this was one of those hypnogogic things that he had read about, or that if Mycroft was really there he would think that he was still asleep.

'I can tell from you breathing that you're awake,' Mycroft said. He sounded exasperated already. This wasn't a good start. Weren't people meant to be sympathetic when you were ill? Mycroft Holmes didn't look very sympathetic, but then sympathy wasn't something that ran in the Holmes genes. Brilliance, ambition, drive, yes; sympathy no.

Reluctantly Sherlock opened his eyes and considered his brother. Smart suit, tick, polished shoes, tick. Recently come from work judging by the perfectly folded handkerchief in his top pocket, and the slight bulge of the pen on his inside pocket. A single missed crumb on his trousers indicated a hasty lunch in the car on the way here, not like Mycroft to eat on the move.

He waited in silence for Mycroft to speak. Mycroft waited in silence for Sherlock to speak. Neither brother liked to lose. Finally Mycroft asked formally. 'How are you?'

'You've already asked my psychiatrist how I am, why do you care what I think?'

'I believe that it is generally considered polite.'

'I am mad, apparently. You?'

Mycroft sighed. 'Always so angry, Sherlock. Why must you always blame everyone other than yourself.'

'I'm not the one who put me into this hell hole.'

'And I'm not the one who refused to eat, drink or speak for ten days, and was having prolonged philosophical conversations with members of a secret spy ring in Uzbekistan that only he could hear or believed to exist.'

Sherlock stared at his brother in disbelief. Honesty could be taken too far. Plus he hadn't thought that he had told anybody about the spies country of origin.

'What did you expect us to do, Sherlock?' Mycroft asked. 'Allow you to starve yourself to death, or become the mad relative locked in the attic?'

Sherlock rolled over and turned his back to his brother. Fine, let him play the noble older sibling, it didn't mean that he had to converse with him.

Mycroft sighed, and surveyed his brother's irate back. The Holmes siblings had never seen eye to eye. Even in looks Mycroft took after his father's side of the family, and had followed him into the civil service days after he had graduated with a first class honors degree from Cambridge. Sherlock took after their mother's side of the family in looks as well as character. Taller, thinner, more angular, with her mediterranean temperament and quick anger. But Sherlock was still his brother, despite everything, and he had to at least try to help.

'I came to warn you Sherlock,' he said slowly, hesitatingly even. This was unlike Mycroft. Sherlock rolled back to check his facial expression.

'Warn me?' he asked in disbelief.

'There are things that you may think that you remember about the events that brought you here. They are delusions and must remain so if you wish to get home.'

Sherlock had absolutely no idea what Mycroft was talking about. He was torn between admitting his confusion and his reluctance to allow Mycroft to think that he had information that he required. Finally the need for knowledge won.

'I don't remember,' he said, slowly.

Mycroft looked sceptical. 'What don't you remember?' he askedn.

'I don't remember anything, Mycroft. The odd scrap of memory, thats all. I remember my first day at school, I remember our house, I remember our mothers funeral but very little else. I don't even remember how she died, and I certainly don't remember anything about what happened to bring me here.'

Mycroft tilted his head and surveyed his younger brother, looking uncomfortably like their father as he did so. 'Then it is best that it remains that way,' he said finally.

'I need to know, Mycroft.'

'No, you don't. What you do need to remember is to say nothing about our father, or what you may think that you remember about him.'

Sherlock looked at his brother in disbelief. 'Why are you doing this?'

'To keep you safe. Because our father, I am afraid to say, won't. He would rather leave you locked up in here than risk a scandal, and unfortunately as your legal guardian he has the power to do just that.'

Sherlock blinked at his brother. This was starting to sound a lot like care, affection, love even. From Mycroft? 'I don't understand.' He said finally.

'No, and you don't have to. You just have to remember. Nothing about our father.'

Sherlock laughed, 'But thats exactly it. I can't remember, and every time they zap my head with that electricity again I'm likely to lose all of my memories all over again. How can I remember?'

'Then I will keep coming, and I will keep reminding you.'

And with little attempt at further conversation, Mycroft left Sherlock to his thoughts, and eventually, unable to process any further, to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning brought a different nurse. Clare her badge declared, friendly, smiling, dark haired to Sarah's blonde, with medication but no breakfast. 'You're not telling me to eat,' he said suspiciously.

'ECT this morning,' she said. 'You can eat when you wake up.'

He couldn't react, couldn't even speak, just rolled over and faced the wall again, pulling the pillow over his head to block out her voice trying to explain what he didn't want to hear..

When she finally left him alone, he sat up in bed and considered his options. The door was locked, he knew this. His room was on the ground floor, but the window when he tried it would only open a few centimetres. After several weeks in bed he didn't rate his chances at running far, but there was no way he was going to go through this without a fight.

The door opened as he was still trying to work out if there was a way to force the window lock. 'I hear you're not keen on your next session of ECT,' came James Harrison's voice.

'Would you be?'

'That wasn't the question.'

'It's a question. Would you have ECT if you were me?'

'Thats two different questions. Would I have ECT if I had your condition? Yes, I would. Would I want to have ECT if I was Sherlock Holmes, and hadn't accepted the fact that I was ill? No, of course not.'

'Then why are you making me have it without even asking me?'

'Because it is the best treatment option for you.'

'And if I refuse?'

James Harrison shook his head. 'Your father has signed the consent for the course of treatment. Your wishes, are irrelevant, I'm afraid.'

Angry tears were gathering in Sherlock's eyes. Men didn't cry, he knew that. He brushed them away and tried to make his malfunctioning brain come up with a plan.

'You're angry.'

'Of course.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't want it!' he yelled. 'I don't want to lose any more memories.'

'You don't want to get better and to get home?'

'Medication can do that, can't it? Besides I am getting better. I'm eating, I'm drinking, I'm talking, I thought that was the deal.'

James Harrison sighed. 'You are midway through a treatment course. Stopping now would be detrimental. Two more treatments to complete the course of six, and the we'll discuss it again.'

'My father has asked for this, hasn't he?' Sherlock said suddenly. 'There's something he doesn't want me to remember. My brother told me. Thats why he's asked for this, don't you see?'

Dr Harrison sighed, 'That, Sherlock, sounds a lot like paranoia to me, and is a symptom of your illness. Your father wants you to get well, as do I. I'm sorry.'

There was a knock on the door, and porters arrived to take him to the treatment room. He fought, of course he did. It took six of them to hold him down in the end, and they had to sedate him to get him onto the treatment table. Then the oxygen mask and the slow creep of the anesthetic up his arm and the he was waking up again in a strange room, head aching, mouth dry, trying desperately to work out where he was, and with tears of frustration sliding down his face, unable even to work out what he was frustrated about.


	5. Chapter 5

When James Harrison came to visit the next day, Sherlock refused to talk to him, ignoring his enquiries, and staring stonily ahead.

'Do you remember who I am?' the psychiatrist asked finally.

Sherlock turned to look at him, and fixed him with what he hoped was an icy stare. 'Yes, you're the bastard who wiped my brain again.'

'Interesting turn of phrase, but nice to know you remember something.'

'But very little else.'

'I hear that you're eating.'

'Because the sooner that I get strong, the sooner I can get out of this place.'

'Will you talk to me?'

'There's no point is there? I know how this works. I talk, then you zap my head again and I forget everything. I'll talk when you stop the ECT, not before.'

'Then its going to be a very long hour.'

You had to admire the man's tenacity, Sherlock thought half an hour in. Every few minutes he would try another line of questioning, an off-hand comment, something designed to get him talking. It wasn't going to work.

'Why don't you just go away and leave me in peace?' he asked finally.

'Because thats not how this works.'

'How does it work? No, wait, how about I tell you.' Sherlock asked. 'I tell you the deep and troubled workings of my mind, you tell me that I am psychotic and deluded, and every piece of information that I give you buys me a few more days in here and another session of brain-sizzling fun. How am I doing?'

Dr Harrison observed him in silence for a few minutes. 'Are you always this angry? Or is it just being in here?' he asked.

'You tell me. You've talked to my brother I suspect. What does he say?'

'Its not about what he says, its about what you think.'

'Then I think that my brother would say that I am always angry.'

'Why?'

'I have absolutely no idea. I don't remember. I told you, that is why this is so pointless.'

Dr Harrison sighed. 'Sherlock, I am trying to help you.'

'Then stop giving me ECT.'

'One more treatment, just one more, and then we'll stop and see where we are.'

Sherlock stared at the man's impassive face. He wasn't going to win, he couldn't win, so why bother fighting. 'Please,' he said, even though he knew that it was futile.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock, we can't stop now. What we can do though is sedate you before you go down, so you won't be aware of it.'

Sherlock stared at him again, and shook his head slightly. 'You won't help,' he said bitterly, 'no-one will help.'

'I'm trying to help.'

'You're not.'

He turned away from Dr Harrison, pulling the pillow over his head, ignoring all the psychiatrists attempt at conversation, concentrating on slowing his breathing, willing himself towards sleep. Eventually he head the door buzz and click as Dr Harrison left the room, and he drifted into dreams.

...

He slept, dimly aware of people coming and going. He woke some time later to find a cold tray of food on the table beside his bed, which he chose to ignore. He drank a glass of water instead, and feigned sleep when the buzz of the door indicated the arrival of a nurse in the room - a different one this time, night staff, he presumed. It was dark outside already, how had that happened? Days and night seemed to be merging into one. He had never slept so much in his life. He had trained himself to manage on four or five hours sleep a night, leaving more time for research and his many projects. Now he was lucky to manage four or five hours consciousness a day. He needed to stop taking some of that medication, stop dulling his brain, give himself a chance to work out the best way to proceed. He couldn't do it like this, his mind was barely functioning.

The nurse was standing next to him, waiting for him to open his eyes. When he didn't cooperate she cleared her throat loudly, waited, then chuckled. 'I know you're not asleep,' she said.

He rolled over to look at her. She was older this nurse, early fifties maybe. She reminded him of the matron at school. This one didn't look like she would be convinced by attempts to get out of games either, although Sherlock had a vast array of tactics to facilitate this, not all of them involving time in the sick bay.

'You need to take your medication,' she was saying, 'but if you don't want to eat then thats fine.'

He inspected the pot of tablets. Seven instead of the usual six. 'Sleeping tablet' she told him in answer to his questioning look. 'Stop you lying awake all night worrying about the ECT tomorrow.'

Apart from that he hadn't know that it was tomorrow. He did now. Not much time to plan, to escape. He considered the tablets. Could he palm them somehow? He was good at magic tricks but he was out of practice. Could he dispose of them somehow?

He considered the woman in front of him. She looked as if she had been doing this job for years, decades. She had almost certainly seen generations of disturbed teenagers, and seen every variation of medication avoidance. Not the one to start practicing on. Reluctantly he swallowed the tablets.

'Thank you,' she said, an edge to her voice. Frustration at the delay? Irritation at his attitude, or just a calculated way of letting him know that she was aware of his thought processes?

'Do you want anything to eat?' she was asking. 'You won't be able to have any breakfast in the morning, so this is your last chance.'

He shook his head.

'Can I get you anything else?'

'No - thank you.' There was something about this woman that inspired respect, and manners.

'Do you want to talk about anything? The ECT? Why you don't want to talk your medication?'

'I just want to sleep - please.'

She checked his blood pressure, adjusted his pillows and finally left him with a conciliatory squeeze of his shoulder. Strange how he usually hated physical contact. His parents had rarely touched him since he had left for prep school. The odd kiss on the cheek from his mother, despite their affection for each other. His contact with his father was usually limited to a handshake; apart from - he swallowed, pushing the dark memories back into the box where they belonged. He didn't know what was in that box, couldn't find his way into it clearly now, but there was pain in there, and terror and that constricting, consuming panic that he didn't want to allow to escape. Best to leave it where it was, lid shut, chains locked. Was that what Mycroft had meant? Did he know what was in the box? Had he done something to his father, something to make him angry?

Best not to think, best not to feel. The sleeping tablets and the sedatives slowly crept over him, and yet again he was tumbling into sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

If he was aware at all the next morning, any memory of it was obliterated by the electricity. One moment he was falling asleep in his room, the next he was waking up with only his aching head telling him that it was all finished, over. No more ECT, not if he had any choice in the matter.

Clare was there, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, jotting down notes in a document file. His, he presumed, but so thick already. What on earth were they finding to write about? She looked up at him and smiled. 'Awake? Good. Are you hungry?'

He realised with surprise that he was, and accepted the food - soup, bread, a glass of milk, gladly. He still only managed half the bowl, but it was the first time that he could remember actively wanted food since he had been here. Maybe, he grudgingly accepted, the ECT was doing its job, but at what cost?

Frowning a little he sorted through his memories to see what remained. He remembered waking up here, remembered patchy parts of his conversations with staff, and Mycroft had been here, hadn't he? Telling him something important, but what? He had to try to remember.

A new face appeared in his room later that afternoon; it was still light outside but the quality of the light was changing, evening was approaching. A woman in her mid thirties, well-dressed, almost too well-dressed. Too much lipstick, too fresh for this time of the day, she must have been reapplying it regularly, but why? Who was she trying to impress in this building of mad and depressed teenagers, mainly female nurses and the odd psychiatrist? Intriguing. A small, almost forgotten of his mind needed to solve the puzzle, the remainder told him that it just didn't matter.

'Hello Sherlock,' she said, in what she said, in what she no doubt considered to be a sympathetic tone. 'How are you feeling?' Without waiting for a reply she continued,'My name's Gemma.' What was she, a waitress? Didn't she have a second name? He was too busy being irritated to be able to focus on what she was saying. She was looking at him expectantly. Had she asked him a question?

He rubbed the side of his face, confused yet again at his mind's stubborn refusal to do its job. Hoping that she would pick up on the signals and not require him to put it into words, but she didn't. He didn't like this woman, he decided. She was showing every sign of insensitivity and worse still stupidity.

'I'm sorry, I missed all of that,' he said finally, hating being forced to admit his own short-comings. 'I got your name, but nothing else.'

'Oh you poor thing,' what was he five? He didn't like fake sympathy, he didn't like being treated like a child and he didn't like being treated like an idiot. He definitely didn't like this woman, but yet again he had tuned out and missed it. Sitting up, he squeezed the bridge of his nose.

'I can't understand anything you're saying,' he said, panicking slightly now. 'I can't concentrate, is that from the ECT?'

'Maybe,' she said evasively, 'Never mind, I'll come back again tomorrow. It was only a flying visit to introduce myself anyway.'

Sherlock wanted to ask her to get the nurse, wanted to tell her that he was starting to panic, but the words wouldn't come, and he didn't want to tell this woman anything. Instead he sat back in the bed, eyes closed, trying to still his breathing, trying to fix himself, trying to arrange his memories past the whispering voices, when had they come back? Past the feeling that they had really broken something in him this time, that some piece of wiring was gone that could never been replaced.

Clare came back into the room, took one look at him and asked, 'Bad? Whats wrong?'

If she could see it why couldn't that Gemma woman?

'I can't think,' he said, 'I can't concentrate, I couldn't understand a word that woman was saying. Whats happening to me?'

'Don't panic, its the anaesthetic not the ECT that usually does that. It'll wear off in twenty-four hours or so. Besides,' she bent down close to Sherlock and whispered in his ear conspiratorially, 'that woman has that effect on me too, can't concentrate on a word she's saying, I just get fixated on that ridiculous lipstick.'

Sherlock smiled, despite himself. This was more like it. He liked Clare he realised, she treated him like a person, not like a child or a patient. The panic was starting to subside, maybe his brain wasn't broken after all.

'Do you need something? Lorazepam?'

'Which one's that?' He knew that it must be a sedative, but he needed to know which tablet was which so he could work out which ones to stop taking.

'The oval blue one. Its a sedative in high enough doses, in smaller doses it makes you more relaxed, takes away the panic. You've been having pericyazine as well, the little white one, but you're not due any more of that yet.'

Interesting. 'Okay,' Sherlock said grudgingly. He didn't like taking the medication, but the panic was still there, barely controlled, threatening to overwhelm him. His hands, when he lifted the off the bedclothes were still shaking. A plan, he needed a plan, he needed to be able to think, but not now, not today. Today he would sleep, and let the anesthetic wear off. Tomorrow he would work out how to get out of here.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day brought James Harrison uncharacteristically early, before Sherlock had had time to do much other than struggle into consciousness, take medication and eat his breakfast. The medication had to go, he knew, but he hadn't yet had a chance to work out which ones, or in what order. He needed to do this scientifically, one tablet at a time, work out the effect that each one had on him, so that he knew which ones he could stop taking. Disposal was also going to be an issue. Flushing them down the toilet seemed to be obvious, and were there cameras? He was fairly sure there were cameras in his room, people watching him, although he hadn't yet managed to identify exactly where they were.

For today he contented himself with palming two of the tablets, just to see if he could get away with it. He could. Hiding them in his cheek was also an option, but the way the nurses watched him to check that he swallowed made him think that trying to keep them in his cheek with his tongue would be detected. An hour later he took out the tablets that he had palmed and hidden under his pillow and inspected them. He was starting to feel panicky, but both tablets looked the same. Small white ones. One must be the pericyazine that Clare had talked about, but what was the other? Until he worked out which was which, it was safer to take both, otherwise they might realise what he was doing. He just hoped the cameras wouldn't pick it up. He did a reverse palm technique to swallow them, wary of being seen with them openly. Stupid really, he should have just palmed one. Tomorrow he would know better. Another day of potential freedom lost.

James Harrison had a thick sheaf of paper with him, which he put down on Sherlock's table. 'Depression score,' he said, 'well actually a manic-depression score. I thought we could see where you are on it later, if you're feeling up to it.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Are you talking to me today?' Dr Harrison asked.

'Do I have a choice?'

'Not if you want to avoid any more ECT, no.'

'Who was that woman yesterday?' Sherlock asked. 'The one with all the lipstick.'

'Gemma Haynes?' So she did have a surname after all. 'She's a clinical psychologist. What did you think of her?'

'She treated me as if I was an idiot.'

Dr Harrison chuckled. 'You were still groggy from the anesthetic, it was a bad time for it really. Maybe you were acting like an idiot.'

'Possibly, but I'm not one, and I don't appreciate being treated like a child either.'

'Fair point, I'll feed that back to her. She's not been with us very long; she's still finding her feet, so be gentle on her.'

So she was new. Interesting. 'Who is she? Do I have to see her?'

'I just told you, she's a clinical psychologist. She's going to do some CBT work with you; cognitive behavioral therapy; both for treatment and to try and give you some strategies to stop the depression from returning once you're well. There's good evidence that its better than medication for preventing recurrence, and as you've already told me that you don't want to be on medication for the rest of your life I would suggest that you work with her.'

'I don't like her. Why can't I just 'work', Sherlock made quotation marks with his fingers to show his contempt for the term, 'with you.'

'Because you're doing psychotherapy with me, thats different. Or rather you're meant to be doing psychotherapy with me. Currently you're just arguing and trying to pump me for information. Besides, its healthier to work with several people, gives you different perpectives.'

'So you can all sit around a table and talk about me, what once, twice a week? What do you call them, case conferences, team meetings?'

'Team meetings twice a week, yes. Then we also have brief handovers with the nursing staff every morning.'

'And what do you say about me?' Really this man was frustratingly difficult to antagonise. People gave away most when you made them angry, Sherlock had discovered. When excessive emotion suppressed their normally logical thought patterns then barriers started to fall and information came out. Dr Harrison however, just wasn't playing ball.

'What do you think that we say about you?'

'That I'm difficult, that I refuse to engage, is that the term?'

Dr Harrison stayed silent.

'Am I right?' Sherlock asked.

'Why are you so bothered by what we think about you? For the record, it is not in your best interest to know what we are saying about you, but we're not here to judge. We wouldn't discuss you in those terms. We might say that you were struggling to engage, certainly, we might say that you were still experiencing significant depressive symptoms, but its interesting that you think that you come across as difficult. Is that something people have said about you before?'

'I don't remember,' then in response to Dr Harrison's expression, 'I think so.'

'Why is that, do you think.'

'I suspect because won't conform to other people's expectations. And because I don't think before I speak.'

'Now you and I both know that isn't true. You do think, you can't stop yourself thinking,thats part of the problem, thats why you've needed such hefty doses of sedation to stop your brain working at a million miles an hour, to give it a chance to rest, to repair.' Hefty doses, interesting.

'So I say hurtful things deliberately?'

'Either that or you say them because you don't realise that they're hurtful.'

Sherlock was silent, considering. 'Think about it,' Dr Harrison said, 'try to remember, and we'll talk about it again in a few days. Because I don't believe that you like hurting people. Setting them off guard, proving you're cleverer than them, yes. I suspect that you can manipulate people very well when you're on form, because of your intelligence, but I think that you do that to gain control of situations in which you would otherwise feel lost.'

'So you don't think that I'm a psychopath?'

'The very fact that you're asking that makes it extremely unlikely. Thats the second time this morning that you've expressed concerns about other people's opinions of you. Psychopaths simply don't care. You do.'

'Sociopath?'

'Possibly, that comes in many forms. I suspect that you're a little lost in social situations. That you're not entirely sure what the rules are or how you're meant to behave, but there are many causes for that. Its too soon to start putting labels on you, Sherlock, and I don't believe that labels are very helpful. People are individuals. What matters is working out how your head works, what has happened in your life to make you end up in here, and using that to help put everything back in order, to get you well.'

'We still haven't agreed that I'm ill.'

'Haven't we? We have agreed that without medication, without treatment you are experiencing anxiety, panic, depression, is that not mental illness?'

'That is one explanation of the facts.'

'Tell me the other.'

'That someone has done this to me, with drugs, to make me like this, to stop me from disclosing information that you have.'

'All right, lets look at that logically. Your symptoms on admission were not consistent with a drug psychosis, and besides, if it had been drugs, the symptoms would have worn off by now.'

'But I'm still being given drugs.'

'Yes, but drugs out of the same packets as all the other inpatients in this institution.'

'Their symptoms could be drug-induced too. Its a possibility.'

'Sherlock, all of them came in here with symptoms which are responding to the drugs exactly as we would predict. The drugs are making them better, the drugs are making you better. No-one is making you ill deliberately. This is not rational, this is paranoia.'

Sherlock considered. The same medication as all the others. Interesting. Could his medication be switched before it was brought to his room? He didn't want to ask, but he needed the information.

'Its the same medication,' James Harrison was saying patiently. How did he know what he was thinking? 'There is no way that anyone could switch it before it gets to you. The nurses looking after you take your drug chart, go to the cupboard, get the tablets out of the pots, put them in the medication pot and bring them in to you. The nurses that you know and are starting to trust. Clare, Sarah, the night staff. Do you honestly believe that they are all in on this? Because thats the only way that you could be being drugged.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'A long acting agent?' he asked, 'Something that could still be in my system?

'You've been here over a month. The only thing that would work that long would be an injectable depot, and there's no sign of that, and besides it would have shown up on the toxicology screen that you had when you came in here.'

'That wouldn't have shown up everything, would it? Only the common stuff. What about something experimental.'

James Harrison sighed. 'Your father had your blood analysed at the MI6 lab, Sherlock. He is not without paranoia either. Nothing came up.'

'The sample could have been tampered with.'

'No it couldn't. It was taken here, witnessed by an MI6 officer, and couriered by him directly to the lab. Your father it seems is not without contacts. Let this go. There is no drug. This is an illness. Why are you finding it so hard to accept that?'

Sherlock shrugged. Filing away in his mind the one possible explanation. That his father could have arranged for the information to be tampered with by MI6, or MI6 could have done it themselves. But why?'

James Harrison was speaking. He had tuned out again. 'What?' he asked.

'I said that it wasn't your father either.'

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. 'How do you do that?'

'I'm a psychiatrist Sherlock. I'm just following your logical thought process, and your thought processes incidentally are very logical, even now. No-one has poisoned you, no-one drugged you into this state. I have told you that it is simply not possible to cause your symptoms with drugs. The sooner that you accept that, the sooner that you can get well.'

'And if I don't you'll give me more ECT?'

'Not at the moment, no. If you need more, I would prefer it to be your choice, but medication and therapy is a better choice now. The ECT was get you to a point where you could take the medication and engage with the therapy, as you are now.'

'Am I engaging?'

'Yes,' Dr Harrison said with a smile, 'Surprisingly well, actually. It helps that you want to know, that you naturally examine the evidence for and against theories, that is what therapy is all about.'

'Can I have a pen and some paper?' Sherlock asked suddenly. 'So that I can write things down as I remember them? So that I can write down theories?'

'Can you be trusted with them?'

'Do you mean am I going to shove a pen up my nose and bang my head on the bedside table in a bizarre attempt at a self-lobotomy, then no. I'm not going to do that.'

'Then yes, you can have a pencil and paper.'

'And some books?'

'If you wish. There are some in the library. What do want?'

'Greek, I like the Greek philosophers.'

'In Greek? I don't think the library here stretches to that. There might be some translations, I'll send the librarian along to discuss it with you.'

'Thank you.'

'Do you want to look at this depression score with me, or shall I leave it with you?'

'What is it?'

'Its a way of quantifying depressive, and manic symptoms. It is basically a series of statements. You need to tick the ones that you feel apply to you.

Sherlock took the proffered sheaf of papers and looked at the list. It made uncomfortable reading. 'I thought that you didn't believe in labels,' he said.

'I don't, but this is a useful way of assessing progress.'

'And of working out if I'm bipolar.'

'Possibly, but we don't have to do it now if you're not feeling up to it.'

Sherlock looked at a few more of the statements and handed the papers back. 'I can't,' he said bluntly, 'not today.'

'Why are you finding this so upsetting?'

'I have no idea.' He paused, and considered. 'I suppose that I don't like seeing my feelings written down in black and white. It feels - odd, wrong.'

'Because it proves that you are ill?'

'Possibly.'

He could feel it, rising up from the pit of his stomach. Black, writhing, consuming misery, with panic in close pursuit. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing.

A hand on his shoulder, reassuring, comforting, but still he kept his eyes closed. 'You've done well today. I'll get Clare to bring you some medication to help. We'll continue this tomorrow. Gemma Haynes is coming to see you this afternoon. Try to work with her if you can.'

Buzz, click went the door as Clare came into the room. How had Dr Harris summoned her? The call button? He hadn't even heard it go, or had she been listening the whole time. Were there listening devices as well? He opened his eyes to check the footsteps were hers. Dr Harrison was still sitting beside his bed, and Clare was on the other side with a paper pot of medication. Two oblong blue pills. Lorazepam she had said yesterday. He liked those, they helped. He swallowed them quickly, gratefully and lay back and waited for them to kick in. Dr Harrison was saying something to him, but he couldn't register it. There was just the mud, thick and black, dragging him down and threatening to close over his head, and then the blessed release of sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Gemma Haynes, he discovered, did not get better on closer acquaintance. The lipstick was still just as red, and whether Dr Harrison had fed back his comments to her or not, she was still talking to him as if he was an idiot.

'I'm not stupid, you know,' he interrupted her as she was explaining to him yet again who she was and why she was here.

'I know you're not stupid. Your IQ is exceptionally high.'

'So why are you talking to me as if I'm an idiot?'

'Yesterday you couldn't understand what I was saying to you. I was just trying to keep things simple.'

'Yesterday I was still groggy from the anaesthetic. Today I am not.'

'But you're still on medication which is stopping you from thinking clearly.'

'But I'm still not stupid.'

He saw something in her eyes, a flash of irritation. Emotion, interesting. Emotion he could use. There was something more. Behind the overly made-up face and the girly hair-flip, this woman was not nearly as stupid as she was trying to appear to be. She was trying to disarm him, make him think that she was an unworthy adversary. Now this was more like it.

'Dr Harrison that that you were new,' he said suddenly.

'Yes I started a little over two weeks ago.'

Not long after he had arrived himself. Interesting.

'So will you work with me?' she was asking.

'I don't have a choice, do I.'

'There's always a choice, but it would be easier of both of us if you cooperated.'

'And if I don't cooperate, what then? More ECT?'

'Are you always this defensive?'

'No, I'm usually worse, The medication is taking the edge off it.'

Sherlock hesitated for a spit-second. Had he given too much away? The natural lead on from that question would have been to ask him how he felt about the medication. That was what Dr Harrison would have done. He would have lied but there was a good chance that Dr Harrison would have picked up on his dislike of it anyway. This was CBT though, not psychotherapy. It was about addressing his thought processes, his cognitive set as she had explained it, not about trying to dissect out the tangle of thoughts and emotions that were currently spinning round in a disorganised soup in his head.

Sherlock tried to cooperate. He disliked Gemma Haynes, but then he disliked and distrusted most people. Trust was not an easy option for him. Even here, especially here. He found that he could still consider his theories with one half of his mind, while appearing to respond to her in a dazed, distracted way which she appeared to be finding convincing.

In many ways it was easy. The majority of questions could be truthfully answered with a simple, 'I don't remember,' because his memory loss of events before he woke up his this room a month or so previously were still hazy to say the least. Odd flashes of memory were coming back to him, but it was like a jigsaw. Events were scrambled, and there was little or no emotion attached to them. Had they always been like that he wondered, or was this another byproduct of the ECT?

Everything was now so damped down by the medication and the sedation that he found it difficult to dissect out how or why he thought anything. He thought things because he did, because it was logical. Gemma Haynes was becoming frustrated. She was trying not to show it, but Sherlock could pick up the tells; the tension round her mouth, the tapping of the pen on the page. What was she finding to write about him anyway?'

'I'm not doing it deliberately, you know,' he said. 'I just can't remember.'

'And not remembering is going to hamper the work that we can do here.'

'So no more ECT?'

She looked thoughtful and considered him. 'Not if I have anything to do with it, no.'

He permitted himself a small smile, despite everything. The relief was overwhelming.

'You really hate the ECT don't you?'

'Wouldn't you? It makes me feel awful and it wipes my memory. Its like groundhog day - I spend a day and a half trying to work things out, and then my brain is wiped back to a blank again.'

'But it has made you feel better.'

Sherlock shrugged. He was getting tired now. Too much talking, too much thinking and the medication was catching up on him. He needed to sleep again.

'It hasn't made you feel better?'

'I don't know do I? I don't remember how I felt before. I don't remember what happened to bring me here, I don't remember any of it.'

'You are here because you have psychotic depression.'

'So they keep telling me.'

'But you don't believe it.' She paused. 'So what are the alternative explanations?'

He didn't like her, he didn't trust her, but he was tired, so tired, and maybe if he talked to her she would leave him alone and let him sleep. Besides he'd already been through this with Dr Harrison. She would know anyway, from his notes, wouldn't she?'

'That someone has put me here deliberately.'

'That's true in a way, your father put you here.'

Sherlock was suddenly wide awake. New information? New evidence? Now this was interesting. Then he realised what she was saying.

'You mean he put me here because I was ill.'

'Precisely.'

'Did he arrange my admission?'

'Yes, of course. You know that.'

Sherlock nodded, as if he remembered, which of course he didn't. He didn't know anything about the circumstances around his admission. Either she had forgotten that, or she was feeding him information for her own purposes.

'Couldn't he have kept me at home?'

'Not with the things that you were saying about him, no. It was safer for you to be away from him. Thats why he hasn't been to visit recently, its better that way.'

'Why?'

'He - antagonised you. Made you worse, but we don't know why. How do you feel when you think about your father?'

Sherlock considered. Angry was the answer, but he didn't know if he wanted to tell her that, and there was something else, niggling at the back of his head, something that he knew he shouldn't say, or had to say, but he couldn't remember what.

And he was tired, so tired, fatigue washing over him in waves despite everything, and he just wanted this woman to shut up and leave him alone.

'Why are you so interested in my father?'

'Because I think that its the basis of your depression, as does Dr Harrison.'

'He's never said that.'

'Because he doesn't want you to know.'

'So why are you telling me.'

'Because I think that you need to know.'

Wading through the memories of this conversation, trying to piece it together was getting more and more difficult as sleep threatened to overwhelm him. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to somehow kickstart his sluggish brain into action, eyes closed. A soft hand touched his hand, lying on top of his for a few seconds. His eyes snapped open, and he looked at her in surprise, but kept his hand where it was.

'Sherlock, I'm on your side,' she whispered, once she had his attention. 'I think that there are things that you need to know.'

'About my father?'

'About why you are here.'

They both jumped as the door buzzed and clicked and Sarah came in with a tray of dinner and a cup of medication. 'Hour's up,' she said brightly.

What had Gemma Haynes meant Sherlock wondered? Why he was here, she had said. Did she know something, really know something about what had happened to him? Was he right after all, just as he had started to believe that maybe, just maybe he genuinely was ill? Was his father somehow involved in all of this? Had he done something to make his father think that locking him up in here was the only solution? What had he done? What could he have done? A crime? It seemed unlikely. More likely he had discovered something, something so dangerous that his father had needed to silence him, to stop him from telling what he knew, and where safer than a psychiatric institution. Who would believe the words of a boy who had been branded as a lunatic?


	9. Chapter 9

The next day brought the first success with medication. In the end it was surprisingly simple, many of the pills had identifying marks on them, and one even had a name on it. Prozac. That was an antidepressant he knew, not the first one to stop then; he had to stop the ones that were preventing his brain from functioning. He had a plan. One tablet at a time, wait for a couple of days to assess the effect, then stop the next one. Slowly, methodically, treat it like an experiment. In the end he successfully palmed two orange tablets with no name on them, just a series of letters and numbers, and in the absence of any overwhelming symptoms from the lack of them, washed them down the sink when he cleaned his teeth half an hour later. It had been almost disappointingly easy after all.

He felt groggy that morning, the effect he presumed of the extra sedation they had given him overnight when he had woken up screaming yet again, from a nightmare that he had not been able to identify on waking. He had been aware only of terror and the knowledge that something terrible was going to happen. Hands were grabbing him, holding him down, pushing him further into the pit, forcing his head under the mud and the filth. The more he struggled, the firmer they held. With cold certainty he knew that he was going to die, but he wasn't going to go down without a fight. Voices were everywhere, raised voices, and the sound of running feet and suddenly it was bright, too bright and he was back in his room and one of the night nurses who he recognised was there, inches from his face, talking to him, telling him it would be okay, that he was safe. He wanted to tell her that he knew, wanted to stop struggling, but somehow his body hadn't caught up with his brain, and he could only sob and scream until the sharp jab of a needle dragged him back into a white and peaceful sleep.

Some of the terror was still there when he woke. A feeling of impending doom; his own personal storm cloud, leaving everything he touched cold and hopeless. He couldn't remember the details of the dream. There had been monsters he knew, and darkness and pain. Hell, maybe, Dante's original version of hell. He hadn't been able to talk about it last night, hadn't wanted to talk about it to Sarah this morning when she had brought in his breakfast. He had just shaken his head and stayed silent.

Everything was an effort this morning, even getting out of bed and getting to the bathroom for a shower had been a challenge, but then it had been a challenge every morning that he could remember, which wasn't many. He felt old, finished, defeated, and wondered if he shouldn't just give in to it after all. Accept that he was ill, accept that he should let all these people into his head, that he needed help.

But there was too much that was wrong here. Dr Harrison, who could tell what he was thinking without him having to say it, Gemma Haynes with her too red lipstick, who had arrived conveniently soon after he had and seemed to be trying to tell him something important about his father, even Mycroft who he dimly remembered had come to see him and told him something important that the ECT had wiped from his head yet again. Where was Mycroft anyway? Was he too important to come and see his little brother? And where was his father, why hadn't he been to visit?

Pushing the blackness to the corner of his head, and shutting the lid of the box on it firmly, he tried to make himself think logically. When he got back to his room, he thought, as he stood in the shower, he would write it down, all the possibilities. But they would read it. Code? Too obvious. Greek! That would do. He liked Greek, had been having Greek lessons since he was ten. It was like a code, something to be worked out, something other people couldn't understand and he could. He liked that.

Back in his room there were clothes laid out in his bed. Proper clothes, not pyjamas. He felt oddly panicked. What was this? He had been planning a couple of hours of thinking and writing, then another sleep. The bed was safe, the bed he understood. Anything else was the unknown. What was outside this room anyway? Apart from the corridors and the ECT room, which he had only dim memories of, he hadn't been outside these four walls for weeks.

Sarah came into the room. Buzz, click. Still locked in then. He was aware of her standing there, gauging his reaction to the clothes, and was aware of how he must look to her. Gangly teenage boy, wrapped in only a towel, staring with dismay at the collection of normal clothes, the sort worn by normal people. But he didn't want to be a normal person. At this precise moment in time all he wanted to do was pull on some pyjamas, get back into bed and pull the covers over his head.

'They're just clothes, Sherlock,' she said gently. 'You can't stay in bed forever.'

He continued to stare at them silently, then jumped as he felt her hand on his shoulder. The sedation was still working then, still dulling his senses, still giving him this odd sense of time kaleidoscoping. One moment Sarah had been by the door, the next standing next to him. Chunks of time missing, gone forever. He must ask Dr Harrison about that.

'Get dressed,' she told him more firmly. 'No-one is expecting you to go and run a marathon on your first day out of bed. You can stay here all day if you want, but you need to try to get back to some kind of normality.'

He looked at her with something approaching distain, despite everything, despite the fact that he liked Sarah, this morning she was - irritating him. Interesting. Was this the effect of stopping the medication he wondered. He tried to clear his expression, suddenly aware that she might realise what he had been doing.

'I'm locked in a room in a psychiatric hospital, doped up to the eyeballs on medication. There is nothing normal about this.'

She considered him for a moment. 'Angry?' she asked quietly.

He narrowed his eyes at her, and then looked away, unable to meet her gaze. The floor seemed a better bet. How did these people know what he was thinking? 'A little,' he admitted.

'Scared?'

He nodded. Not only could she identify his emotions, but she could do it quicker than he could it would appear.

'Its normal to be scared. You've got cabin fever. You've been in here too long. This room is safe, controlled, and control is important to you, isn't it?'

He nodded again.

'But you can't stay in here forever.'

He vaguely remembered a conversation with Dr Harrison a long time ago about high dependency and hope suddenly flared despite everything. Maybe, just maybe if he could get out of this locked room to somewhere less secure then he had a chance of getting out, getting away. The thought filled him with terror, but if he planned it carefully, pushed all of those emotions into that box of his then he could do it couldn't he? Get out? Get away?

'You're moving me to another room?' he asked, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

'Not yet, no. You're still a flight risk, and you're not stable enough to go in the open ward.'

A lead weight dropped from somewhere in his throat to the pit of his stomach. No escape yet after all then, and they knew what he was thinking, what he was considering. What then was the point? He sat down heavily on the bed, head in hands, ignoring the clothes that were being crushed underneath him.

'Then why bother?'

'One step at a time. Trust me, you'll feel better if you get dressed. Sit in the chair, read one of those books that the librarian brought you if you want. Start re-entering the land of the living.

There was a stack of books on a new table by the door. Plato's republic was the only one that he recognised as being what he had asked for. Also some Dickens - Dickens? And a couple of books on depression and CBT. Great, homework.

Sarah followed his eye line. 'You may well not be able to concentrate on the sort of things you normally read, so the librarian brought you a selection. Just don't get too frustrated if your brain isn't up to its normal speed.

'My brain isn't even working at half its normal speed, I'm probably at about five percent at the moment, if that.'

He was suddenly tired again, exhausted. Wearily he started to pull the clothes on, then making the most of the few minutes of privacy after Sarah left him to get dressed, he took one of the books and curled up on the bed with it. He had had an idea. If they wanted him to get up and start functioning they were going to have to cut down on his sedation. That could only be a good thing. Yawning, he realised that it would not be hard to go back to sleep, better that than to have to try to explain why he didn't want to sit in that chair in this room, staring at the white walls and waiting for the blackness to come. A small voice at the back of his head told him this was the right thing to do, and by the time Sarah arrived back in his room with the tray he was fast asleep, fully clothed, still holding his copy of 'The Republic,' open on the first page but still unread.


	10. Chapter 10

When he woke bright sunshine was flooding the room. The curtains were back and the blinds up for the first time that he could remember. He rubbed his eyes and sat up, wondering for a moment why he was lying on top of the bed, fully clothed. Then he remembered. Good, the memories were coming with less effort now, stopping those pills had obviously been the right decision.

Minutes later, Sarah entered the room, carrying a paper cup of medication and his lunch tray. How had she known that he was awake? There must be cameras, but where? Try as he might, he couldn't see them.

'Good sleep?' He wondered, for a moment if she was annoyed with him. He had, after all, gone to sleep fairly deliberately to avoid the facade of normality that she had planned for the morning, but she didn't look annoyed. She looked - amused if anything.

He shrugged. 'Too much sedation, I guess. I couldn't stay awake.'

'Which is why we're going to try you on a little less for this afternoon, see if you can manage to stay out of bed for a while.'

The cup contained one blue tablet, instead of the normal two, and two orange tablets. He had been correct. The blue ones were the sedative, but what were the orange ones? 'What are they?' he asked. His curiosity he calculated would be thought of as natural.

'The blue one is lorazepam, its a sedative; the orange ones are haloperidol, they treat psychosis - stop the paranoia and the voices.'

Voice? What voices? Best to stay quiet in his confusion, he thought. He wasn't paranoid, he wasn't psychotic, so stopping the haloperidol had been a good choice. The sooner his brain started working properly again, the sooner he could get out of here. He took the blue tablet and palmed the other two.

He hadn't seen Dr Harrison today, he realised. Had he slept through his session?

'Its Saturday,' Sarah told him when he asked her. 'No therapy sessions today. But I've got a list of targets for you instead.' She laughed at his dismayed expression. 'Nothing too taxing, I promise. You've achieved two of them already. You've got up and into the shower without me having to bully you into it, and you've got dressed. Its not a bad start.'

'What else is on your list?' Sherlock asked, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. Irritation, frustration, annoyance. Was this what he was normally like? He was struggling to remember.

'You need to get out of this room,' Sarah was saying. 'Normally we would encourage you to start going into some of the communal areas - television room, games room, meet some of the other patients, start socialising.'

Sherlock felt physically sick. Socialising was not something that came easily to him at the best of times, and now, when he was like this. No, no way. He started to shake his head, panic rising again, tears to his horror burning behind his eyes. Head in hands, rocking slightly as he sat on the side of the bed. This was no good, this wasn't how he wanted to be at all. This wasn't going to get him out of here.

'Hey, calm down,' Sarah was saying, hand on his shoulder. 'There's a but. Dr Harrison doesn't want you socialising with the other patients, maybe he's afraid you'll come up with a Great Escape type plan, I have no idea. Whatever the reason his directions are very clear. You can go outside, with the supervision of a staff member, but he doesn't want you talking to any of the other patients, and he doesn't want you going in any of the communal areas here.'

Slowly and not without effort, Sherlock calmed his breathing, panic receding.

'You really don't like other people very much do you?'

'I don't think so, no.'

'Why not? What are you worried about?'

He shrugged again. 'I don't know. I don't think other people like me very much generally.'

'Did you have friends? At school? At home?'

'I don't remember.'

Sarah nodded thoughtfully. 'Your memory loss is pretty extensive isn't it. Its unusual you know. Most people lose a few weeks at most, round the time of their illness, in some ways its a good thing, not to remember that, but you - you've lost huge amounts of time, of memory. Is it coming back at all?'

'A little - odd memories, but not much.'

'It should come back eventually, its just going to take time.'

Time. That was all anyone ever seemed to say to him these days. 'It will take time,' 'Give yourself time.' He didn't want it to take time. He wanted to get out of here, get home, get back to normality, even if he couldn't remember what that was.

'Eat,' Sarah was saying, manipulating the table with the lunch tray on it over his bed. 'Then try getting out of that bed for a while, even if its just ten minutes. Try writing down some of those theories that are rushing round that head of yours. You never know, it might help.'

How did they all know what he was thinking? But she was right. It did help. Sitting in a chair felt odd after all that time in bed. His back and shoulders ached with the effort of staying upright without the support of the bed. His arms as he stretched them out in front of him looked thinner than ever, the bones still sticking out of the skin. He couldn't think about that now, something else to put in the box and shut the lid on. Theories then. Writing them down in black and white was harder than he had thought it would be. They seemed disorganised, chaotic even. What had seemed so rational in his head looked ridiculous on the page. He threw down the pencil in disgust, just as a soft knock on the door preceded the buzz and the click of the electronic lock.

A tousled sandy head came into the room, followed by a boy dressed in jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt. Not a boy, a young man, early twenties maybe, with a staff ID attached to his belt.

'Can I come in?' he asked.

Sherlock was confused for a split second. 'People don't usually ask,' he said finally, feeling more stupid than ever. What was this fug in his head? Even stopping those tablets hadn't helped clear it yet.

'Most of them have to come in. I'm sort of an optional extra,' the visitor said with a grin.

Sherlock shrugged then nodded, 'Then come in.'

'I'm Matt,' the man said holding out a hand for Sherlock to shake. 'I'm an assistant here. Sarah thought you might like a little company as you're still confined to quarters as it were.'

'No she didn't,' Sherlock said.

Matt laughed, 'No you're right, let me re-phrase that, she thought that some company might be good for you.'

'An assistant what?' Sherlock asked.

'Assistant anything really. Its sort of an apprenticeship post. Most of us want to go into clinical psychology, so we help out here, get some experience, looks good on the cv and its interesting.'

'So you spy on the patients, report back the staff?'

'Jesus you're defensive, are you always like this? We don't spy, and we are staff, well sort of. I told you, we help out, spend time with the patients, talk to them if they want, not if they don't and help out in the therapy sessions too. Will I report back on you? Not if you don't want me to, no. We're sort of a bridge between the staff and normality. A bit less clinical, a bit more real, and I can, for example take you outside if you want, when the nurses don't have time to.'

'I don't want to go outside, thanks.'

'Don't want to, or can't face it?'

Sherlock's jaw clenched. He didn't like being analysed like this, especially by someone he'd only just met.

'Look I'm sorry,' Matt said. 'I used to hate being told what I was thinking too.'

His wrists, Sherlock noticed, just visible beneath the sleeves of his t-shirt were criss-crossed by white scars. Self-harm marks. Old but still there, a reminder of what had come before. 'You were a patient here?' he asked.

'Not here, somewhere else,' Matt said. 'Mind if I sit down?' Without waiting for a reply he sat on Sherlock's bed. 'Thats how I got interested in psychology, did it for a degree, and now I'm getting experience so I can apply to do clinical psychology. Do some head-shrinking of my own.'

'So you're going to tell me that you know what its like?'

'No, because I don't know what its like for you, I just know what it was like for me. Look if you want me to go, I'll go, and leave you to your -' he looked at the sheet of paper in front of Sherlock, 'hieroglyphics. What the hell is that, anyway.'

'Greek,' said Sherlock briefly, but he didn't ask him to go.

'Worried about them reading what you're writing? They told me you were paranoid.'

'I'm not paranoid,' Sherlock snapped automatically.

'Yeah you are,' Matt chuckled. 'If you weren't you wouldn't be writing in Greek. Conspiracy theories?' Sherlock looked at him in disbelief. 'Can't get it down on paper? Doesn't make any sense? You're paranoid all right. All seems straight in your head, doesn't it? Then when you try and put it down on paper it all looks like mad ramblings. Ever occur to you that maybe thats because its exactly what it is?'

'Were you paranoid too?'

'Psychotic,' Matt shrugged. 'Too much weed, thats what did it for me. Trying to stop thinking about what a mess everything else was. Three months in a place like this, trying to work out what was real and what wasn't. On so much medication I couldn't think straight. I hated it, just like you do, but it got me well. Did my A-levels in a year, went to university, and here I am.'

'Is that why Sarah's sent you to talk to me?' Sherlock asked, not bothering to try and hide the edge of frustration in his voice, 'To tell me to be a good boy and take my medication and everything will be okay?'

'No, I told you, she thought you might like some company, and a chance to look at something besides these four walls. You know you've been here for over a month, and the only time you've been out of this room is to go for ECT. Thats a tough ride. Why don't you come outside with me? Remind yourself what the real world looks like.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Its an effort even to walk to the bathroom. There's no way I can get all the way outside, even if I wanted to.'

'I could get a wheelchair and take you out in that if you want. They're going to set the physios on you Monday, did you know that? They think you've lost too much weight and too much muscle in here.'

Sherlock looked at him, calculating. Information. Interesting. Much more information than any of the other members of 'proper' staff had given him, with their careful considered answers.

'Did that happen to you too?' he asked, interested despite himself.

Matt shook his head. 'No, I wasn't as bad as you. I didn't have ECT, didn't end up as sedated as you, didn't really end up in bed for more than a couple of days. You're the worst one I've come across in a while,' he said cheerfully. 'Most people are back on the open ward after a week at most, but not you.'

'Does that make me interesting?'

'Do you want to be interesting? No, don't say it, I know, I sound like one of them and thats driving you mad. I can see it in your face. How about we make a deal?' He leant forward slightly, 'I won't tell you what you're thinking, and I'll try not to psycho-analyse you like the rest do, and you let me take you outside.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Not today,' he said.

'Tomorrow?'

'Maybe.' He looked down at the pad of paper, covered in scrawled notes. Matt was right. It made no sense. He couldn't come up with rational theories. Maybe they were right. Maybe he was just ill after all.

'Try doing it as a diary,' Matt said, indicating the piece of paper with his head. 'That helped me. Write down what happened to bring you here, what you can remember, and what's happened since you've been here. They would tell you to write down how you feel about it too, but I won't do that. They tell me you like the facts, like things to be rational, logical. Write down what you know, and then everything else will come from there.'

'My memory's shot,' Sherlock said briefly. 'I can't remember much at all.'

'All the more reason to write down what you can remember then. Help you keep track of it all.' He got up as he spoke. 'Listen I'm going to leave you to your writing for now, but I'll come back tomorrow if thats okay. See if you feel like going outside then?'

Sherlock shrugged again. 'Okay, if you want.'

'You're not easy to help, you know that? Just do me a favor, when you're constructing those theories of yours, just include the theory that you are genuinely ill and that we are all genuinely trying to help. Its a possibility.' He had reached the door. 'I'll see you tomorrow,' he said, as he swiped himself out with his card.

Left alone, Sherlock filled page after page with writing. It was disjointed, snatches of memory. He left gaps between sections, hoping that he would be able to fill them in later, but he remembered more than he had thought. What was more useful was the information that he had got from various people. He wrote those on a separate sheet. His father had arranged his admission, Mycroft had been to see him and told him something about his father, he was not allowed to talk to other patients, he was not allowed out of this room unaccompanied. Finally, exhausted he threw his pencil down again, and picking up one of the books the librarian had left, curled up on the bed with it. Bleak House. How appropriate. It seemed vaguely familiar. He had studied it at school, he thought. More memories coming back. Good.

The light was fading outside already. Time really did do odd things in here. Dinner arrived, medication which he was to tired to attempt to conceal this time, and then sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

The days, he discovered, were surprisingly long when the ability to sleep for the vast proportion of it was removed. He felt twitchy and on edge, jumping at every sound, and sounds themselves seemed louder, colours brighter, everything more immediate than it had been before. It was as if he had been watching the world from behind a screen and suddenly that screen had been removed. When he had woken that morning he had been unable to cope with the sensory overload, and Sarah had come in with his breakfast tray to find him cowering under the covers, blankets over his head, trying to create his own calm space, to drown out the noise and the voices and the brightness that threatened to overwhelm him.

'You okay?' came her voice after the buzz-click of the door and the thud of the breakfast tray being put down.

'Its all so loud, so bright,' he said, still with the covers firmly over his head. Then there was the soft sound of her feet crossing the room and then the noise of the blinds being pulled down, the curtains pulled across.

'Better?' she asked. Cautiously he peered out of the covers. Sarah laughed, 'You look like a meerkat trying to work out if its safe to come out its burrow,' she told him. 'You're coming off the sedation, remember? Its been taking the edge off everything, its going to take time to readjust.' Time, that word again, as if he had all the time in the world. He didn't think that patience was one of his strong points even when he was well. But at least she was assuming that his reaction was due to the reduction in sedation, and this could only be a good thing. She hadn't worked out what he was doing with the other medication.

There was a new tablet today, a small white one, mixed in with all the others. He was almost tempted just to take everything in the pot, but remembering his plan, he palmed the two orange ones again and swallowed the rest.

Breakfast, clean teeth, wash unwanted tablets down the sink, shower, dress. The tablets took the edge off things, but nowhere near to the extent that they had before. Several times that morning he had to retreat from the chair to the bed , where he lay huddled up, eyes screwed closed, trying to calm his breathing and remember who he was and why he was doing this. 'You can have some more medication if its too tough,' Sarah told him, the second time she came in the room and found him like that.

'No, its fine, I just need five minutes.'

Sarah had sat with him and talked to him about disconnected things. Random stories of life far away from here, stories about the real world. Strangely it helped, and eventually he uncurled and sat up.

'Thanks,' he said. 'Its better now.'

'Your brother is coming to see you later, after lunch I think. In the meantime why don't you try going outside with Matt? He's around this morning.'

'I can't even cope with the curtains being open. How on earth am I going to cope with going outside?'

'Sometimes the best way to deal with your fears is to confront them. Give it a try.'

And so he did. He accepted another of those small blue tablets that took the edge off things nicely, and let Matt take him outside in a wheelchair. Sarah came too in the end, walking beside him, talking to him, trying to keep him calm. It was - dazzling. He hadn't remembered that colours could be so vivid; the breeze on his skin felt odd after so long inside, but it was calmer somehow, more real being outside the building than stuck within the same white walls.

'Okay?' Sarah asked, when she had seen him installed on a bench next to Matt at the far end of the garden.

Sherlock nodded, then found himself grinning at her. 'You were right, its better out here.'

'Thats the first time I've seen you smile since you got here, do you know that? Good. I'll leave you too it then. Matt - are you all set?'

Matt checked his pockets, 'Yup, whistle, panic alarm, I'm good.'

Sherlock pulled a face. What did they think that he was going to do. 'Oh you'd be surprised,' Matt told him as Sarah walked back to the building. 'Its always the quiet ones who decide to make a run for it, or worse.'

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know about worse. 'Do they ever manage to get out?' he asked, trying to keep his tone nonchalant.

'Course not,' Matt said, 'security is too good. There are at least three locked doors or gates between you and the outside at anyone time. And even if you nicked a tag,' he said, aware of Sherlock eying up his ID badge, 'you need a keycode as well to get through most of the doors.'

Difficult but not impossible then. 'I wouldn't,' Matt said quietly. 'You're under a section. They'd just find you and bring you back. Besides, look at the state of you. You're on so many psychotropic drugs, I'm surprised that you can string a sentence together, and you can't walk more than ten steps without having to sit down. How far do you think that you'd really get, even if you did manage to get out?'

He was right, Sherlock knew that he was right, still it was good to have something to aim for.

'They'll let you out eventually, you know,' Matt was saying, 'And if you need anymore convincing think how you feel first thing in the morning before you've had your medication; then multiply that by about twenty and thats how you'd feel if you stopped taking all your meds for a few days.' Sherlock swallowed hard, not able even to contemplate it. Matt looked at him sharply. 'Exactly. You'd be curled up in a ball somewhere, rocking gently, and then you'd just be back to square one. Not worth it. Trust me, I tried it.'

'Did you get far?'

'Just to the gate. Then I ended up flat on the ground with six people sitting on top of me and a syringe full of medication in my arse. Believe me, its not a pleasant experience.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and tilted his head back, enjoying the warmth of the sun of his face. It reminded him of something. Sitting in a meadow near his home. Someone had been with him, someone he cared about, and he had been happy. Then as fast as it had come, the memory had gone, disappearing like smoke when he tried to hold onto it. Frustrated he snapped his eyes open again to find Matt watching him.

'You're a strange one, you know that? Even for in here. What were you thinking about? You looked miles away.'

' I was remembering,' Sherlock said, 'but its gone.'

'Do you remember what happened to get you in here?'

'No, why?'

'There's normally something thats all. A trigger, a life-event as they call it, something that happens to tip you off the rails. Oh I not saying that it probably wouldn't have happened anyway, some people are biologically pre-disposed to it, but there's normally something.'

'I don't remember,' Sherlock said tightly.

'And if you did you wouldn't tell me, right? Thats fine. You don't have to tell me anything. We can just sit here in silence if thats what you want. No pressure.'

And sit there in silence they did, but it wasn't an awkward silence. After maybe half an hour, Matt stood up. 'Better get you back, or Sarah will be after me. Did it help?'

'I guess. Better than being stuck inside anyway.'

'I'm off tomorrow, but I can come and see you Tuesday if you like. Take you outside then?'

'Maybe. I'll see.'

'It gets better, you know. Gets easier. You just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.'

Sherlock stayed silent as Matt wheeled him back to his room. One foot in front of the other, it sounded - boring, predicable, dull. There had to be an easier way, surely. Pulling the paper towards him he started to write down the new information he had discovered, oblivious to Matt's cheery goodbye and the soft click of the door behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

Lunch, medication, sleep, then waking up to a soft knock on the door. He struggled to an upright position, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, momentarily dizzy as Sarah came into the room with a tight-jawed Mycroft following behind. Sherlock shook his head slightly, trying to clear the dizziness, not wanting to show weakness.

'I've brought you a visitor, Sherlock,' Sarah said, standing back to let Mycroft pass her.

'Sherlock,' Mycroft said shortly. 'You look better.'

'Amazing how much better a person feels when they're no longer having large voltages of electricity applied to their head on a regular basis.' Sherlock said dryly. 'Why don't you sit down, Mycroft, unless you're not planning to stay.'

Mycroft pulled the chair round, so that it was at a precise ninety degree angle to the bed, and sat down. Sarah, meanwhile, had adjusted Sherlock's bed, so that he could sit back against it. She did this silently, adjusting the bed, then reaching over from the other side to gently place a hand on his shoulder and pull it back slightly towards the bed, wordlessly suggesting that he should sit himself back on the bed rather on the edge. He looked up at her, ready to argue that he could sit up, but she winked at him, and he complied. She was not his enemy, logically he knew that, so why was it still so hard to accept that she was trying to help him?

'So how are you?' Mycroft asked.

Sherlock shrugged. 'Better,' he said, then added hopefully, 'Can I come home?'

Mycroft looked horrified at the suggestion. 'I don't think so, do you?'

'What happened, Mycroft? To bring me here?'

'You still don't remember?'

'I don't remember anything. I can't even remember where we live, what our house is like, where I went to school, nothing.'

If Mycroft was shocked, he didn't show it. He looked - interested if anything, Sherlock thought. It was amazing how much more perceptive he was now that the medication was wearing off. Tomorrow he would try stopping another tablet, and see what effect that had. If he could get rid of the fug in his head then maybe, just maybe he could work out how to trick them into letting him out of here. He needed to work out how to appear sane. He knew that he wasn't mad, but that on its own was apparently not enough. As with many things in life, it was now how you were, but how you appeared to be that mattered.

'Then how about we start with that, and see how far we can get with rebuilding your memories.' Mycroft was saying. Memories, of course.

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. 'You're going to help me?' he asked, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Mycroft sighed. 'I am your brother, Sherlock. I wish that just for once you could accept that I might be on your side.'

'Then tell me what happened to bring me here.'

'Not yet,' Mycroft said. 'I have been advised that it might not be in your best interest.' He looked at Sarah, who was standing quietly against the wall, observing Sherlock's interaction with his brother. 'What is she worried about?' Sherlock wondered. 'What does she think that I might do?'

Mycroft indicated the door with an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. Then when Sarah merely raised an eyebrow at him, added, 'Please.'

She nodded, and made her way to the door, then stopped, doubled back and handed Sherlock the call bell. 'If you need me, press the button,' she said. 'I'll be just outside.'

He nodded, ducking his head, unable to meet her gaze. Embarrassed slightly by how grateful he felt to her for picking up on his concern at being left alone with Mycroft. Ridiculous. This was his brother. Why should this be so hard?

'Do you need anything?' she asked. 'Medication?'

He shook his head. 'No, I'm fine. Thank you,' he said.

'You're getting polite in your old age,' Mycroft said sarcastically as the door clicked closed behind her.

Sherlock chose to ignore him. 'So someone has told me that you can tell me about my past, but not about the events leading up to my admission. Correct?'

'Very good, Sherlock, that brain of yours if obviously switching back on. Impressive considering the amount of medication that you're on.' Mycroft looked at his little brother appraisingly. For one horrible moment, Sherlock thought that Mycroft had worked out what he was doing with his medication. He knew about his fascination with magic tricks, after all; but if Mycroft had reached that conclusion then he was staying very quiet about it. The memory loss and his general dopiness, Sherlock realised, were enough to throw Mycroft off the trail. In addition to this, his interaction with Sarah, far from showing weakness, had been a good thing. It had made Mycroft believe that he was compliant, that he was accepting his illness, that he was doing what he was told.

'So tell me what you can. Give me some of my past back, at least,' he said finally.

And so Mycroft told Sherlock about his past. He told him about the house that they had both grown up in, the eighteenth century manor house which had been in their family for generations, about the woods that Sherlock loved to wander in, the same woods that he was being chased through in his nightmares, he realised. He told him about the staff who worked in the house, about the cook who let Sherlock watch television in her kitchen, the only television in the house, and about their father's library, which they were only meant to enter with his permission, but which Sherlock frequently sneaked into via the window, to read the books that his father would rather that he didn't see. Was that what had happened, he wondered? Had he seen something in the study that he wasn't meant to see? Something that had made his father lock him up in here? Something dangerous?

There was a voice whispering at the back of his head. A voice that he didn't recognise. 'Secrets,' the voice whispered, 'Secrets that you weren't meant to find.'

'What does our father do?' Sherlock asked Mycroft suddenly, interrupting him.

'Do? He's a peer, Sherlock, in the House of Lords, and he sits on various government select committees.'

'Officially. And unofficially?'

'Things that you knew, but are best to forget.'

'Things for MI6?'

Mycroft leant close and spoke very softly. 'This is paranoia, Sherlock, and something that you had best forget, as I have already said.'

'To forget something you have to have seen it, or known it, Mycroft. Thats not paranoia, thats memory.'

'You can remember your delusions. That is what you are doing.'

'Am I now?'

'Yes,' Mycroft replied, fixing Sherlock with a basilisk stare, 'You are. And you had best remember that.'

Sherlock sighed. 'While we're on difficult subjects, tell me about our mother. I remember her playing the piano, I remember her funeral, I don't remember anything else.'

There was a long pause, as the brothers contemplated each other in silence.

'What happened, Mycroft?' Sherlock asked finally.

'Car accident,' Mycroft said briefly, 'In the south of France. She was killed outright.'

'Our father was angry with her - at the funeral. I remember that. Why?'

'She was in the south of France with her latest lover, one of a string of them. Mostly too young, all unsuitable. How did you expect him to feel?'

That would explain it, certainly. The look of contempt on his father's face. The rage.

'Did he - did he still love her? Did he want her back?' Sherlock asked, uncertainly.

Mycroft gave a bitter laugh. 'Love? Our father? You really don't remember him at all do you. Our father doesn't understand love, Sherlock. Duty, yes. Honour, yes. Emotion for him is a weakness. He was angry because our mother made him look like a fool and a cuckold, and then furious at himself for his anger.'

Fury, yes. Sherlock had a recollection of his father's fury. He swallowed, convulsively. A visceral memory of his own gut-churning, shaking, heart-racing reaction to his father's fury, but nothing else. No memory of his father's face, or of the events that had lead to the anger. Just cold-blooded terror, the same terror he realised that woke him up screaming in the middle of the night. Eyes squeezed shut, hands clenched into fists, he turned his head away, hoping that Mycroft wouldn't notice. But this was Mycroft Holmes, and his observational skills were superior even to his brothers.

'Sherlock?' came Mycroft's voice from a distance, and then with, what was that concern? 'Sherlock - shall I call the nurse?'

'No, just give me a minute,' Sherlock gasped, trying to calm himself down, using the techniques he had been taught to slow his breathing, calm his heart rate, get himself out of the cycle of panic and fear.

After several minutes he shook his head, like a dog trying to get water out of its ears, as if he could somehow shake off the memory.

'Better?' Mycroft asked, obviously disturbed by what he had witnessed.

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, sorry. Catches me off guard sometimes.'

'And you really think you're ready to come home?'

'I would be better at home.'

'Would you? I don't think so.'

Sherlock wanted to ask about his father, wanted to know if and what he had had to do with the events that had brought him here. Why he elicited this almost primeval sense of fear in him, but he couldn't.

Finally, he said quietly to Mycroft, 'You said something to me before, last time you came, something about our father. Something I can't remember.'

'I told you not to talk about him in your therapy sessions.'

'Why?'

'Because some things are better left unsaid.'

'Why?'

'Because some things, Sherlock, are dangerous.'

Sherlock looked at his brother. No suit today, it was Sunday after all. Checked shirt, round necked wool jumper, corduroy trousers, polished brown shoes. He looked like the archetypal English gentleman, circa 1950. Had Mycroft ever been young? Truly young? Not that he could remember. Appearances had always been important to both of their parents, but while Sherlock had shown a willful disregard for his clothing, often turning up at the dinner table with unbrushed hair, muddy knees and a torn shirt, much to his mother's despair, Mycroft had always been much more careful in his appearance.

Dangerous. Sherlock liked dangerous he remembered, well normally he did. He fixed his brother with what he hoped was an icy stare.

'Not this one, Sherlock,' Mycroft said carefully, 'this is not good dangerous. This is one that you can't win. Trust me on this. You need to leave our father out of it.'

'And if I don't?'

'Then I hope that you like this place, because our father will make very sure that you are never allowed to leave. Do you understand?'

Sherlock looked at his brother, saw the steel in his gaze and nodded. 'Why are you helping me?' he asked suspiciously.

Mycroft sighed again. 'I told you, because you are my brother, and whatever you may think, I do have your best interests at heart.'

There was a soft knock on the door, and Sarah came in. 'Time's up, I'm afraid,' she said.

'Mycroft, wait,' Sherlock said, as Mycroft got up to leave. 'Why hasn't father been to visit me?'

'But he has,' Mycroft said, 'Early on, when you were first ill. You just don't remember.'

Sherlock frowned. He had no recollection of that whatsoever. Had his father been here? In this room? Why couldn't he remember?'

'He's out of the country for a few weeks,' Mycroft was saying. 'He's named me your guardian while he's away.'

'I'm sixteen,' Sherlock snapped. 'I don't need a guardian.'

'In the eyes of the law, you're still a child until you're eighteen,' Mycroft reminded him. 'Besides you're under a section. Even more reason to have a guardian. I'll be back to see you soon. Is there anything that you need?'

'Books,' Sherlock muttered reluctantly. 'From my room. The Greek ones, and whatever else is in the pile by my bed.'

'I'll bring them next time I come,' Mycroft said, and then he was gone.

Sherlock remained motionless on his bed for some time after he had left. Unable to sleep, unable to cope with being awake, trying to process the information that Mycroft had given him. He should write it down, he knew, try to make some kind of sense out of it all, but he was too tired, and thinking today was like wading through treacle.

He closed his eyes and willed himself to sleep, then distantly he heard murmured voices. One sounded very much like Mycroft, the other was familiar, but he was struggling to identify it. They were speaking so quietly that it was difficult to hear, but he could make out the words, 'Sherlock,' and 'father,' then 'care' and 'silent.' What was this? Was Mycroft talking to someone else about what had happened with his father? Sitting up so quickly it made his head spin, he saw Mycroft getting into the waiting car; and walking across the drive, away from where Mycroft's car had just been - Matt. It could have been Matt's voice that he had heard, he realised. But why would Matt have been talking to Mycroft? Was he somehow involved in this too?

Lost in ever more complicated thoughts, he jumped when Sarah came in with his supper tray. 'Are you okay?' she asked.'Visits can be tough.'

He nodded, then suddenly sensing an opportunity asked, 'Sarah, does my father phone? To find out how I'm doing I mean?'

Sarah looked puzzled. 'Of course, but he doesn't speak to us, he speaks to Dr Harrison, or more often to the director of the clinic. He phones all the time, Sherlock. He's very worried about you.'

'Then why doesn't he visit?'

Sarah hesitated, and in that hesitation, Sherlock read volumes. 'Do you want him to visit?' she asked finally. 'How would you feel if I told you that he was outside right now?'

Fear, panic, terror. Of course.

Sarah nodded. 'Exactly. Your father was part of your delusions, Sherlock. Its better for both of you if he stays away. Until you're better.'

'I am better.' Sherlock protested.

'Not as better as you're pretending to be, I don't think. It going to take -'

'Time?' Sherlock asked bitterly. He looked at the tray of food in front of him. The smell of it was making him feel sick. 'I don't want any supper,' he said, pushing the table with the tray on it away from him, and curled up on the bed, with his back to the room.

'Take your medication then, and then you can sleep.'

There were two pots of medication, one on the tray with his supper, the other that Sarah had left on the chair by the door as she came in, he realised. It contained a sleeping tablet, and another of those small white tablets that she had told him were for anxiety.

'You knew,' he said flatly, 'You knew that I would feel like this.'

'No,' Sarah told him, calmly, 'if I'd known, then I would have put all of the medication on your tray to start with. I just knew that there was a fair chance.'

'How did you know?' He sounded suspicious, he knew, but he was too tired and confused to try and hide it.

'Do you think that I can read your mind? Hear your thoughts? Is there a part of you thats wondering that?'

'That would be crazy,' Sherlock muttered.

'You're avoiding the question.'

'I'm too tired for this,' Sherlock said, rubbing his face with his hands, but he didn't deny it, because part of him was wondering exactly that.

'Take your medication,' Sarah told him, holding out the first pot, and the glass of water. She was watching him closely as he swallowed the tablets, too closely to try to avoid taking any of them. Did she know about that too? How? He swallowed them, one by one, first pot, second pot. Were there more than usual? He couldn't tell. Part of him no longer cared. Maybe they were right, all of them. Maybe he was ill, perhaps he was paranoid. He didn't know what was real anymore, didn't know who to trust. If even his brother and Matt were in on the conspiracy, then who did that leave?


	13. Chapter 13

Waking the next morning he felt - calm, focused. He had slept surprisingly well given that he must have fallen asleep sometime before seven. Time lost its meaning here; there were no clocks, no watches. Where was his watch he wondered? It had been a birthday present from his grandfather before he died, a proper grown up watch to take to his new school with him. Already a veteran boarder at the age of thirteen, he had been unprepared for the harshness of public school, where the sixth formers were men, not boys, where fagging still went on, and where the strongest survived. He had not been the strongest, and being clever and a little eccentric was no longer seen as a good thing. Fortunately he was good at magic tricks, and after a few weeks of disappearing textbooks, essays containing punish-worthy phrases that the offending pupil could not deny were in their own handwriting, and strange alarm clocks ringing at three am, Sherlock found himself left alone. He was treated with a certain deference by his fellow pupils, but he had few friends.

He remembered, he realised. Not everything, but large chunks of events were finally starting to come back to him. Pulling pencil and paper towards him, he began to write, and had covered nine or ten sheets before Clare came into the room with his breakfast tray.

'Morning,' she said, 'you look better. Sleep well?'

'Yes, thank you,' he said, pulling the papers towards him and tapping them into a stack, as he saw her trying to read them.

'Code?' she asked.

'Greek,' he said.

'Worried that we'll read them?'

'Maybe.'

'We wouldn't you know, not without permission.'

'Some people in here would.'

'Do you think people are trying to trick you, or get to you in some way.'

'Maybe.' He knew he was being evasive, but was still to muddled to come out with alternative answers, with clever answers. Time to ditch another of those tablets he thought. Clare left him alone with his medication, and he stared at them in the pot for a while, contemplating which ones to take, and which ones to hide while trying not to make it too obvious what he was doing. Because he hadn't forgotten about the cameras.

The orange ones he had hardly taken for a couple of days now, so they were palmed and hidden under the pillow to be disposed of later. The little white one for anxiety went the same way, but the lorazepam he took, unsure that he could function without it; the prozac too, because the nightmares were still there, and because he still remembered the pit and the mud, and the sensation of drowning. Whether he had been drugged into that feeling, or whether it was something his brain had cooked up itself he didn't know, but that was still going to be the last tablet that he stopped taking. That left two tablets to decide on, an oval green tablet, and a round dark red one. He had no idea what either of them were, but worried that Clare would come back, he palmed the green one, and swallowed the red, simply because the green one was bigger, and he had no other information to go on.

Shower, breakfast, then a trip to the physio gym despite his protests. 'I don't need physio.'

'Fine, then stand up and walk to the door and back without holding on to anything.' Clare said calmly.

'Thats the medication. Stop that and I'll be fine.'

'No, its because you've been in bed for the best part of a month and you've lost a lot of muscle.'

'I'm not doing physiotherapy, Clare.'

'Come to the gym with me, Sherlock. Talk to them at least, see what they've got to offer. They might surprise you.'

They didn't. They wanted him to do exercises that he didn't want to do, and to talk to him about muscle groups that he had no interest in.

'No,' he said calmly, when they asked him to get out of the wheelchair and come and stand at the parallel bars.

'Why not?'

'Because I don't want to.'

'You won't even try?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I know how to walk. I'll walk round the garden if thats what you want me to do, but I'm not doing ridiculous exercises in some stupid gym.'

'Sherlock,' came Clare's warning voice from behind him.

'No,' he said. 'I'm not doing it. Take me back to my room,' he hesitated, 'please.'

His hands, he realised, were gripping the arms of the wheelchair, tightly, too tightly. He was starting to panic and he didn't like it. 'Please,' he whispered.

Clare came and stood in front of him, then squatted down and studied his face, waving the physio away. 'You okay?' she asked.

'No,' he said. 'I need to get out of here. Please.'

'Okay, lets go,' she said, and wheeled him back to his room, helping him into the bed where he lay on his side, eyes closed, welcoming the silence.

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'No, I just want to be left alone'

Okay. Press the buzzer if you want anything. Do you want some more lorazepam?'

'No.'

Was she annoyed with him? He couldn't tell. What were they giving him to make him feel like this? It was horrible. The anger, the panic. It was better now, in this room, he felt safe in the silence, but Matt was right. He was never going to be able to get out of here while he felt like this. Despite everything he slept for a while, then waking with new resolve pulled the pad of paper towards him and began to write. He was still writing two hours later when Dr Harrison came into the room.

'How was the weekend?' he asked, settling himself in the chair.

'Okay. I went outside.'

'So I hear. Did it help?'

'Yes, a bit.'

'So what happened at the physio gym this morning?'

'I didn't want to be there.'

'Obviously not, why not?'

'I don't need physiotherapy.'

'I think you do, the nurses think you do, what makes you think that you know better?'

'Its my body, don't I have any choice about what happens to it?'

'Fair point, but won't you at least try.'

'Not today, no.'

'Tomorrow?'

'I don't think so.'

'Will you at least think about it.'

'If I have to.'

'What else happened.'

'Nothing happened, I just didn't want to be there.'

'Clare said that you got very anxious.'

'A bit, maybe.'

'Do you know why?'

'No.'

Dr Harrison sighed. 'If you're going to be like this all session, Sherlock, then its going to be a very long hour.'

'Then don't let me keep you.'

Dr Harrison indicated the notes in front of Sherlock. 'May I?'

'If you want.' Sherlock slid them across to him, and permitted himself a small smirk as the psychiatrist scanned down the pages.

'Greek,' Dr Harrison said. 'Thats interesting. You spelt this word wrong, by the way.'

'What? Where? Sherlock's smirk turned to an expression of horror, as he looked at the word and realised that James Harrison was right. 'You can read Greek?'

'You're not the only one who had Greek lessons at school you know, Sherlock. In fact my first degree was in Classics. I did medicine later when I realised that there wasn't much call for classical scholars in the real world, unless you wanted to teach. Now are you still happy for me to read these?'

'I'd rather you didn't.'

'Then I won't.' He handed them back. 'Is that why you're writing in Greek, so we can't read them?'

'Maybe.'

'Sherlock you can write in Greek, or Latin, or Ancient Babylonian for all I care. Nobody here will read this if you don't want us too. How about I get you a box file to put it in? Make you feel a bit more secure.'

'That won't stop you reading it.'

'No, but I am promising you that we won't.' He paused. 'Do you believe me?'

'No.'

'Do you still think that there's a conspiracy to keep you here?'

'I've told you I don't want to talk about that.'

The rest of the session continued very much along these lines. Eventually, Dr Harrison asked, 'Sherlock, what can we do to make you feel better about being here?'

'Let me go home.'

'I can't do that, I'm afraid.'

'Why not?'

'Because you're not well enough, it wouldn't be safe. Besides you're under a section, we can't just you go.'

There was a long silence. 'I don't know what that means,' Sherlock confessed finally, sulkily, 'or if I did, then I've forgotten.'

'It means that two mental health professionals, one of them myself have agreed that you need to be here for assessment and treatment.'

'How long for?'

'Twenty eight days in the first instance, but we've now extended that to up to six months.'

'Six months! I can't stay here for six months.'

'And I don't think that you'll have to. But you have to stay here until we consider that you are well enough to leave.'

'I'm not ill.'

'You're wrong, Sherlock, I'm afraid. You are ill, you just can't recognise that fact.'

'Or I'm not ill and you're wrong.'

Dr Harrison sighed. 'Sherlock, what do you think would happen if I let you just walk out of here?'

'I would be fine.'

'Would you? Could you walk out of here?'

'No, because you've got me so drugged up on medication that I can hardly walk.'

'What do you think would happen if you stopped that medication? Do you remember how you felt a few days ago, do you want to feel like that again?'

'No, but -' he stopped and frowned.

'But, what? But somebody is drugging you to make you feel like this?'

'Maybe.'

'Is that what your notes are about?'

'Partly.'

'Do you still believe that?'

'Its a possibility.'

'But not a very likely one.'

So round and round they went, until Clare's arrival back in the room announced the end of the session.

That evening Sherlock contemplated the pot of tablets. Fewer this time. The blue one, the lorazepam he took, the orange ones he disposed of, the other tablet which he couldn't identify he hid inside his pillow case. When sleep didn't come he realised it must be a sleeping tablet, and reluctantly took it. Tomorrow he would cut back on another tablet, and the next day another until he was back to normal. Then they would have to let him go home.


	14. Chapter 14

The next morning he woke early, before breakfast arrived, and lay there for a long while thinking, eyes shut, careful not to move in case they realised that he was awake.

He needed to prove that he was sane. Proving that you were sane in an insane situation was, he realised, infinitely more difficult than proving that you were mad in a sane one. He needed to be calm, but if he cooperated with everything that they asked him to do then they would work out that he was playing games. He needed to work out who was on his side. Sarah and Clare he was fairly sure were what they seemed; Dr Harrison also appeared to genuinely be trying to help, although sometimes he seemed to know a little too much about what was going on inside Sherlock's head. Gemma Haynes was a different matter entirely, there was simply too much that didn't add up about her. Her arrival shortly after his was just too much of a coincidence for his liking. Could she be a spy for his father? It was possible.

That brought him to Matt. Matt he liked, maybe a little too much, he trusted him a little too much and he needed to be careful. Matt was still one of them, even if he had once been a patient, and anything said in an unguarded moment would still be reported back, he had no illusions about that. And then there was the conversation that he had overheard between Matt and Mycroft, what did that mean? Was Mycroft in on the plot to keep him here too?

Then there was the big question. Why was he was here? All the information that he had indicated that it was connected to his father, but how, and why he still had no idea. It was frustrating that Mycroft had advised him not to talk about his father to the staff here, depriving him of the ability to dig for infomation. Sherlock concentrated hard, trying to dredge up any memories of the events leading up to his admission, but there was nothing, and trying to think about his father took him to the edges of that familiar panic. Pushing away the panic and forcing his mind onto another tract, he sat up and reached for the pad of paper to write it all down; in Greek still, because you couldn't be too careful whatever anyone said. He would have written it in Babylonian just to annoy Dr Harrison if he'd known any.

Five minutes later Clare arrived with breakfast and tablets, then left him to it. Tablets, now here was a challenge. The lorazepam he took, remembering yesterday's panic, the prozac too, then after consideration he hid the rest. He didn't need them and he wanted his head working for todays deductions. His mind felt free, racing through the possibilities in a spider diagram of cause and effect even as he contemplated his breakfast. Porridge, toast and marmalade, orange juice. They could be drugging him via his food, he realised suddenly. His medication came from the same pots as everyone else's, and he was told couldn't be switched, but the drugs could be in the food. They could be mixed with the food somehow, before it was brought to him.

What form would the drug come in, he wondered. Liquid was unlikely, more likely a powder that could be mixed in with food or drink, one thing at a time most likely. He picked up the plastic tumbler of orange juice and viewed it from underneath. There would be sediment, residue surely, any drug sufficient to cause his symptoms was unlikely to be very soluble. So liquids were safe, but he would still check the tumbler for residue once he had finished, just to be sure. Toast was safe, because powder would be visible on it. He inspected it. Nothing. That left the marmalade; he should he be able to see a powder mixed in with that surely, it should be fairly safe. Much easier to conceal them in the off-white porridge, no porridge then. What else could the drugs be hidden in? Mashed potato, custard, anything wet, anything of that consistency. He could avoid all of these he realised, without the staff realising what he was doing. Good, a plan. He always felt better when he had a plan.

He was inspecting the bottom of the plastic glass of orange juice for residue when Clare came back into the room. He put it down quickly, but still too late. She raised an eyebrow at him. 'Still think we're trying to poison you?'

'Of course not.'

'Of course, yes.' She frowned. 'The antipsychotics should have kicked in by now. I'll talk to Dr Harrison about increasing your dose.'

'I don't think that you're trying to poison me.'

'Then why were you looking at the bottom of the tumbler?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and then decided that silence was probably the safest option.

Clare was still looking at him, waiting for him to dig himself deeper into the hole. Finally she pulled up a chair beside his bed and sat down. He looked at her in surprise. This was new.

'Sherlock, sooner or later you are going to have to accept that we are here to help you,' she said. 'I am not trying to poison you, Sarah is not trying to poison you. Nobody is drugging you, nobody has made you ill.'

'Then why am I here?'

'Because you are ill, not because of anything that anybody else has done to you, not because of anything that you have done, but because this is an illness. Just like having flu, or pneumonia, or a gangrenous appendix. Because sometimes people's bodies get sick, and sometimes their minds get sick, and that, unfortunately is what has happened to you.'

He still couldn't meet her gaze. Because he didn't believe her, he couldn't believe her. Because there was too much that didn't make sense. Mycroft's conversation with Matt, Mycroft's instructions about his father, and Gemma Hayne's comments on Friday for a start.

'Not talking to me?' Clare asked gently after a long silence.

He shrugged, then finally looked at her. 'I don't think that you're trying to poison me if that helps. I think that you're trying to help, I think that Sarah's trying to help.'

'So who do you think is trying to poison you.'

'Nobody. I don't think that. Why would I think that?'

'Drug you then? Make you ill?'

'Maybe.' Why was he telling her this? He didn't want to, but the words were coming without any filter by his brain. He needed to stop the lorazepam too, but he didn't think that he could bear the panic without it.

'Who do you think is drugging you Sherlock?'

'I don't know,' he yelled at her in frustration, wanting suddenly to punch something, kick something, lash out, but there was nothing in range. She had moved the over-bed table out of his range before she had sat down, he realised.

'Okay, its okay. Calm down.'

He wanted to shout, wanted to cry, he wanted to get out of this place. His hands scrunched up the sheet, pulling it, trying to tear it, his eyes squeezed shut trying to work out what he could do to get out of here. He heard the door click, reinforcements of course, he had known there must be cameras. He waited for the hands, the needle, but they didn't come. Instead there were calm hands on his, holding them, then gently disentangling them from the sheets. He wanted to be angry, but suddenly he was just exhausted, and he finally sank back against the back of the bed, eyes closed.

Clare was saying something to him, he didn't know what it was, but it was making him feel better. The words themselves were meaningless, drowned out by the voices screaming in his own head, telling him that he needed to get out of here, that she was lying, that she was in on it too, that she was part of the plan. He didn't believe it, but the voices never lied, so what did that mean? He pulled his hands free and wrapped his arms around his head, forearms over his ears, trying to block out the voices, but they seemed to be coming from inside his head and they wouldn't stop. He was rocking now, sobbing, and then there were arms round him, holding him tight and then everything stopped. The voices, suddenly were silent, and he was crying tears of relief, as words started to make sense again, and the room came back into focus when he finally opened his eyes.

He was holding onto Clare, he realised, and slowly, slightly embarrassed, let go and pulled away. She disentangled herself, and with a final squeeze of his shoulder, let him rest back against the pillows, adjusting them behind his head.

She didn't say anything, didn't have to. Just sat back down and waited for him to speak. 'Sorry,' he finally mumbled.

'For what? Emotion is good, Sherlock, emotion is normal. You have been through a horrible experience, and its normal to feel angry and upset about it. Its normal to feel scared. Most patients in here have people they trust, friends, family. I've never seen a patient have so few visitors. Is there no-one else you're close to? Grandparents, aunts and uncles, friends who could come and see you, make you feel less alone.'

'I don't remember,' he said finally, taking the tissue she handed him and wiping his face. 'I think that I like being alone, but I don't remember.'

'Have a think about it. There must be someone you trust, one person who you believe is on your side. Because I think thats what you need. One person who can tell you what is real, and what is not real. One person that you can tell everything to.'

Sherlock started to cry again, because he knew that there was no-one. His mother was gone. Mycroft he trusted to an extent, but Mycroft was on his own side and nobody elses., always had been. Always prepared to let Sherlock take the blame to keep his own slate clean, even as children. Mycroft knew the truth, of that Sherlock had no doubt, but he was holding back. There were things that Sherlock desperately needed to know, and yet Mycroft wouldn't tell him.

Then there was Matt, who had been through exactly what Sherlock had been through, who knew about voices and being trapped and wanting to escape. Who said that he could keep secrets, that Sherlock could talk to him, but Matt had been talking to Mycroft, or had he?

Clare was sitting very quietly scanning his face, trying to work out his thought processes. Could she hear what he was thinking, he wondered. Was that why she was so quiet? No, of course not. That kind of thinking was - madness, but then he was mad, wasn't he? Or was he. Round and round his thoughts went. Faster and faster. Had he always been like this? Thinking so fast that he couldn't keep up. No, he realised. His thoughts had always been fast, but the ECT had affected the way he processed them, and the drugs were slowing him down. Some parts of his brain were working at their original speed, freed from the constraints of the tablets, the rest was still working slowly, so slowly. It was like cogs in a giant machine, some running fast, some running slow, so that instead of functioning there were crashing and grating against each other. No wonder his head was throbbing, it felt as if it was going to explode.

Clare was talking again he realised. What was she saying? He forced his mind back to the present and tried to focus.

'Sherlock, are you okay?'

He stared at her, dazed for a moment. 'Yes, my head just feels - odd.'

'Odd how?'

'As if its not running straight. Thoughts are jolting together, and everything's fading in and out, sometimes I can't hear people, sometimes I can't think at all. Everything is disjointed, separated, and then it comes clashing back together. Its horrible.'

Clare gave him what he presumed was meant to be a reassuring smile, but above it her eyes were worried. She was still sitting by his bed, hands on the covers, but not touching his. Ready to give comfort if comfort was required, but respecting his personal space. God they were good in here, he realised. They gave people exactly what they needed. How did they do that? And if they were so good, why couldn't they get his head working properly.

Clare's lips were moving, but he had faded out again.

He shook his head. 'I missed it again. I thought it was just the anaesthetic drugs. Why is it happening again?'

'Just concentrate for a minute on what I'm saying and I'll try to explain. You're on a lot of medication. It takes time to get that right, but you're still paranoid, which means that either its not kicked in properly yet, or its not the right medication for you. When you were sedated, things were getting better, yes?'

He nodded, reluctantly. Because there was a third option. That the medication had been making things better. The medication that he wasn't taking. Had it been like this before, at home? He couldn't remember.

'I'll talk to Dr Harrison about it later, see if we can change some of your tablets, that might help.'

He blinked and tried to focus. Something odd was definitely happening. Was whoever was drugging him adding in something new, or was this is head clearing because he'd managed to avoid taking in a dose of whatever they were giving him with the food this morning. If so he thought that he liked being drugged better, because he couldn't cope with this. Clare was holding out a pot of tablets. Where had they arrived from? He hadn't heard the door close, hadn't noticed anyone else coming into the room. He didn't even look at them, just swallowed them in one. He didn't care what they were. He just wanted it all to stop. Wanted his head to stop whirring and clanking.

'I'm cancelling your physiotherapy for today,' Clare was saying, ' and I'll get Dr Harrison to come and see you later, when you wake up.' No physio was a bonus, at least. But wake up, was he going to sleep? There had been no injection, but already his eyes were getting heavy and he didn't object when Clare put the bed back and laid him flat. Time was kaleidoscoping again, her lips were moving and she was next to the bed, then she was sitting in the corner of the room a split second later, writing up notes as he finally gave up the battle in his head and drifted into sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

When he awoke it had stopped raining. There was someone sitting beside his bed. He blinked to focus and Dr Harrison came into view. Sherlock rubbed his eyes sleepily, trying to clear the fog from his head.

'Hullo, he said. 'How long have you been sitting there?' His voice was husky from sleep, but his head felt clearer, better than this morning at any rate. The sleep had helped.

'Not long. Feeling better?'

Sherlock frowned. 'A bit, not sure yet. Can I sit up?'

Clare appeared as if by magic, and pressed the button to bring the back of the bed up. 'Have you been here the whole time?' he asked, confused. He had a vague memory of waking earlier to find her sitting in a chair by the door, watching him.

'Keeping an eye on you,' she said with a smile. 'You missed lunch, are you hungry?'

He shook his head, and she returned to her seat and her paperwork, leaving him to talk to Dr Harrison.

'Do you want to tell me what happened earlier?' Dr Harrison was asking.

'I'm not sure. Everything got a bit - messy.'

'Inside your head?'

Sherlock nodded.

'Are you still hearing voices?'

Sherlock hesitated, considering. If he admitted to the voices, then they would put up his medication. On the other hand he was hearing voices and he didn't like them. Besides, just because they put up the medication didn't mean that he had to take it. But would they give him more ECT if he told them? What if he refused? He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The cogs in his brain were grinding against each other again, making his head pound. Silence seemed to be the best option. He was too tired to work out the best option today, perhaps saying nothing would be safest.

'I'll take that as a yes,' Dr Harrison said finally. 'If you weren't, you would deny it. People do, you know, because anything else would be taken as an indication of madness and people don't like that.'

'I didn't say yes,'

'But you didn't say no.'

'No,' Sherlock snapped in frustration.

Dr Harrison chuckled. 'You didn't say no quickly enough. Why can't you just be honest with me?'

'You know why.'

'Because you don't know whether to trust me? I thought that we'd been through that.'

Had they? He didn't remember that. He tried to drudge through the pitiful ashes of his memories and found it. So they had. The effort was making his head thump harder and he rubbed his forehead as if he could erase it, then squeezed the sides of his head which felt as if it was being gripped in a vice.

'Headache?' then at Sherlock's expression. 'I'm not reading your mind, Sherlock. I'm just reading your body language. Clare can get you some tablets for that.'

There was a buzz and a click as Clare left the room.

'I don't know who to trust.'

'You can trust me. Sherlock, look at me and use that brain of yours. If I say you can trust me, do you think that I'm lying?'

Sherlock looked at James Harrison and considered. He had an open and honest face, there were no tells of lying, and he met and held Sherlock's gaze without looking away. 'No, I don't think that you're lying,' he said finally.

'Do you think that I'm part of a conspiracy to keep you here, to poison you?'

Sherlock considered for a while. Thinking while his head was throbbing wasn't easy. 'No,' he said finally, 'I don't.'

'Then why can't you tell me whats going on?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Do you think I might tell someone else, someone who is in on this conspiracy of yours.'

'You make it sound ridiculous.'

'Its not ridiculous to you.'

'Because there is something going on.' He was getting angry, and trying to hide it, but he wasn't dazed enough to think that Dr Harrison wouldn't pick up on it. The click of the door announced Clare returning with a pot of painkillers and more lorazepam.

'I don't want those,' he told her, taking the painkillers.

'Take them,' she said softly, 'I don't want you getting as upset as you did earlier, once in one day is more than enough for that.'

'What happened to cutting down on my sedation?'

'Take them, Sherlock,' Dr Harrison told him, 'we'll decide what we're doing with your medication later, but you're getting agitated, and what we need to talk about in this session is only going to make it worse.'

With two sets of eyes on him, he took the tablets, despite the whispering voices telling him to palm them, and the slowly building fury at being treated like a child.

'Why are you so angry?'

'I don't know.'

'You don't like being told what to do, do you?'

'Not much, no.'

'Why not.'

Haven't a clue.'

'Do your parents tell you what to do?'

'Well, my mothers dead, so not so much. And I remember very little about my father.'

Apart from the dreams, the chasing, the falling, the monster with his fathers face, the screaming, the fear.

'But thinking about your father makes you feel - anxious, scared?'

'How do you know that?' He was too tired to hide his suspicion.

'Because you told Sarah that on Friday. I'm not reading your mind, I can't hear your thoughts.'

'I know that.'

'Do you? Honestly. Are you telling me that you have never believed that was what was happening?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Thats not logical.'

'And hearing voices and believing that someone is trying to poison you is?'

'The voices aren't logical, no. The poisoning remains a possibility.'

'So you are still hearing voices.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, defeated. 'You know that I am.'

'Who are they? Do you know?'

'They haven't introduced themselves.'

He looked at James Harrison who was waiting for him to continue, but failing to react to his sarcasm.

'Some peoples voices have names, discrete personalities, some can even tell me what they look like. The fact that you haven't engaged with yours is a good sign.'

'Why?'

'Because it proves that you haven't accepted them as being real.'

'They're not real. They're coming from inside my head. They're just annoying.' And one of them, the most derogatory one sounded a lot like his father, but he wasn't going to admit to that.

'If you took your medication then they would stop.'

'I am taking my medication, and they're not stopping. They did for a while, now they're getting louder again. Maybe they're getting used to it.'

'Are you taking your medication?'

'Yes,' Sherlock almost yelled it, impressed at his own capacity to lie, even now. He might trust Dr Harrison to an extent, but there were some things that he certainly wasn't going to tell him.

'I have to ask. Patients often don't take it you know, or try not to take it. Especially patients who don't believe that they're ill.'

'I know that I'm ill. My brain isn't functioning at all, I can't remember anything and I can't think straight. Plus I'm hearing voices. None of this is normal. I'm not stupid, I know that.'

Dr Harrison gave him a moment to compose himself, then very calmly added, 'And your mood is very labile; calm one moment, angry the next. What happened this morning?'

'I got frustrated, I felt - trapped, and then, I don't know, it was as if everything just fell apart inside my head, as if I was disintegrating.'

'Is that what happened before?'

'I have no idea! I can't remember.' He was getting angry, he was getting frustrated. This was dangerous. He knew that if he wasn't careful he would tell Dr Harrison everything, because he was too tired to keep fighting. For a split second he wondered if that would really be such a bad thing.

'For what its worth, I'm sorry that the ECT affected you so badly. It was our only option at the time, and we had no way of knowing that it would affect your memory to this extent.'

'I told you and you kept giving it to me.'

'Would you rather we had let you starve yourself to death?'

'There were other options, there must have been.'

Dr Harrison sighed. 'Whats done is done, Sherlock. If I had another patient in the same condition as you, I would do the same thing again. Its always easy to be wise in hindsight. But if it helps, I don't think that more ECT would be in your best interest.'

'Then we agree on something.'

'So what do you think that we should do?'

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. 'What do you mean?'

'How do you think that we can get you better?'

'I'm not a psychiatrist, I don't know.'

'But you are very clear on what we've done wrong, so what could we do that you think would be right?'

'Let me go home?'

'To your father? Is that what you want?'

Panic flooded Sherlock at the thought. He turned his face away from Dr Harrison, and tried to keep his face calm, but he was starting to shake. This was ridiculous. He heard someone come round to his side of the bed, and Clare was there, a hand on his shoulder, murmuring to him to slow his breathing, that he was safe, that it was okay. He could hear her this time, and dimly remembered this happening before. Panic, dizziness, fighting for breath and the nurses helping him to get back in control. Finally the panic subsided, and he opened his eyes. 'Sorry,' he muttered.

'Is that what happened earlier?'

'Partly.'

'You're having panic attacks, and they're getting worse. Thats something else the medication can help if we're getting it right, which we're obviously not at the moment. But the triggers tell us a lot about whats going on inside your head.'

'My father.'

'Exactly.'

'I don't want to talk about that.'

'Why not? He obviously scares you. Has he always scared you? Did he do something to you to make you scared?'

Sherlock gave a bitter laugh. 'I can't remember.'

Dr Harrison considered then asked carefully. 'How about your brother. He would know, wouldn't he? I could ask him, with your permission.'

'No!' Sherlock sat bolt upright in bed, words tripping over each other despite the sedation, 'Please, don't talk to Mycroft about it. You mustn't.'

'Why not?'

'Because then he'll know I said something.'

'And he told you not to? Sherlock what is going on here?'

He was crying. Again. He didn't want to, but he had no control over it. It felt like sliding into a black pit, and he couldn't get his way out of it. He could hear voices, Dr Harrison's and then Clare's, but they had lost their meaning again, and the voices in his head were taking over. His father's voice was loudest now, it was definitely him, yelling at him, calling him a fool and an idiot. He grabbed his head in both hands, pulling on his hair, somehow, irrationally, he thought he might be able to pull the voices out of his head if he could just find the right angle to pull in. Hands were holding his, then the footsteps, more voices, the prick of a needle and then nothing.


	16. Chapter 16

He was buried under an enormous mound of something very soft, and seemingly never ending. He fought his way to the top of it as if swimming, but every time he thought that he could reach the end of it, he found more of the stuff. He wasn't scared; he found that he could breathe freely, but at the same time he knew that he had to find his way out. He heard something, a noise next to him, and somehow used that to latch onto, to pull himself back into consciousness.

He was in a room that wasn't home. It was too white, too bright. He blinked and watched the trees out of the window for a moment. They looked familiar and then he remembered. His hand was sore, there was a bandage on it, and a cannula again. Someone was sitting in the chair by the door, he struggled to focus, and eventually Clare's face swam into view.

'What time is it?' he asked groggily.

'Its half nine in the morning. We kept you sedated overnight. How are you feeling?'

'Pretty horrible.'

'But calmer?'

'Yes, I suppose.'

'Less likely to try to pull your brain out through your head?'

'Did I do that?'

'You looked as if you were going to give it a fairly good go, yes.'

Clare gave him a small smile. He wondered if anything surprised her anymore after what she'd seen in here.'

'Sorry.'

'Its not your fault, Sherlock. You don't have to apologise.'

He lay there, watching the light coming through the leaves on the tree outside. Too tired to talk, too tired to do anything but lie there, and enjoy the silence inside his head. It was nice to have a bit of privacy in there for a change. 'The voices have gone,' he said finally.

'We gave you haloperidol overnight through the cannula, that would be why.'

Haloperidol was one of the tablets he'd been avoiding wasn't it? He couldn't remember. 'Was yesterday what I was like when I first came here?' he asked instead.

Clare considered. 'Not really, that was new,' she said. 'When you came in you weren't communicating at all. You were just huddled up in the bed, talking to your voices. Lost in your own head. You wouldn't take medication, and eventually you stopped eating and drinking too. Thats why they had to give you the ECT. But you had nightmares, and the nightmares were a little like yesterday.'

He shook his head. 'I don't remember those either. Did I say anything about them?'

'Nothing coherent. Someone was chasing you, I think. You would wake up screaming, and sometimes you lashed out at staff when they came to help; not deliberately, you were still stuck in the nightmare.'

'And you would hold me down and sedate me. Thats what I can remember. I wasn't sure if it was real or not.'

'We were just trying to keep you safe. I'm sorry, it must have been terrifying.'

'I liked the sedation. It made everything stop, took away the fear. It still does.'

'Your nightmares now, are they about the same thing?'

'I think so.'

'Can you tell me?'

He hesitated, then realised he could say what, if not who.

'I'm running through a wood, someone is chasing me, I have to get away. Then I wake up screaming.'

'Is it always the same dream?'

'Basically, yes. Sometimes I fall and he catches me, sometimes I wake up first.'

Clare nodded. 'I think that you should talk to Dr Harrison about that dream of yours, but not today. I don't think you're ready yet, and I don't want you having another day like yesterday. Sherlock? Are you okay?'

The monster had his fathers face, he knew it. He'd forgotten, how had he forgotten? And why did he dream of his father chasing him, what was he so afraid of?'

Clare's voice came as if from a distance. His eyes were squeezed shut, he realised, his hands clenching the sheet, his breathing too fast, making him dizzy. Dragging himself back to the present, he forced himself to slow his breathing. Clare's hand was over his, and slowly he unclenched a fist and held hers. It was warm and reassuring, real. It helped.

'You need to take your medication, Sherlock,' she said sadly.

'I have been.'

'Have you? Then how have you ended up like this?'

'Its not working.'

'Its not working because you're not taking it. I'm right aren't I?'

He met her gaze, and shook his head.

'You don't have to tell me, just try something will you? Try taking everything we give you for a couple of days and see if it doesn't help. Because if you keep going like this, you're going to end up back to square one or worse.'

'Okay.'

'Starting with these.'

There was a pot of tablets on the table, he realised, which Clare now handed to him. There were new tablets in there, ones he didn't recognise. 'New tablets?'

'The old ones weren't working, for whatever reason.'

'What are they?'

'If I tell you, then you'll play games with them. I've seen it before. Just take them and see if they help. If you want another day like yesterday, then don't take them.'

He swallowed them, every one. Clare was watching him like a hawk; he couldn't have palmed them if he'd tried. She made him show her his hands after he'd taken them, and shone a torch in his mouth to check that he hadn't hidden them in his cheek. Tears of humiliation trickled down his cheek as he opened his mouth to prove that they were gone.

'I'm sorry, Sherlock,' she said softly, 'I know that this is horrible for you, but you have to see it from our perspective. Either you're not taking your medication, or its not working. The doses you've been on, it should have worked, and when we gave it to you intravenously it worked. I don't think that you've been taking it, but thats just a hunch. This way if it doesn't work, then at least we know why.'

He refused breakfast after that, and went back to sleep. Whatever they were giving him made him sleepier than ever, and when he was woken up for lunch, it was an effort to keep his eyes open enough to talk to Clare.

'Too tired,' he mumbled, and eventually she left him to sleep.


	17. Chapter 17

He had a vague recollection of Dr Harrison coming to see him later that day, but he couldn't understand what he was saying, or mumble anything other than the odd word to him, and eventually he too left him to sleep.

When he woke up the light was fading, early evening, and there was a bag of fluid attached via a plastic tube to his arm again. Matt was there, sitting in the chair by the door. 'Are you real?' he asked, confused.

'Fraid so. Clare's gone on a break, asked me to cover. You're on close observations, so someone has to be in the room with you all the time. Just in case - you know, you try to gouge your eyes out with a spoon or something.' He grinned to show he was joking, and came over to sit in the chair by the bed.

'I haven't got a spoon,' Sherlock said sulkily.

'Just as well by the sound of it. So what happened? You were doing good on Sunday. I leave you for what a day, and you end up like this?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I don't know.'

'You stopped taking your medication, didn't you. I've seen it all before, remember? Been there, done that. You're better to be honest about it.'

'Why?'

'Because if you're not honest then they'll think that you're getting worse because the ECT is wearing off, or that they didn't give you enough, and they'll just give you more. Oh and they'll whack up your medication, which they've already done, and it'll make you feel like crap because from taking virtually nothing you're suddenly on enough medication to floor a baby elephant. How am I doing?'

'Okay, okay. I stopped taking some of my medication.'

'Honesty. I like it, at last. So come on, which ones did you stop taking?'

'All of them apart from the prozac and the lorazepam.'

'No wonder you went loopy again. Those voices must have been deafening.'

'They were.'

'Paranoid? Think everyone was out to get you?'

'Yes.'

'Panicky?'

'Yes. How did you know?'

'You stop that lot and all of your psychotic symptoms are going to come back. You stop them fast and you're going to get withdrawal symptoms; anxiety, panic attacks, melt-down. Why didn't you talk to me about this?'

'Because I knew that you'd tell them.'

Matt shook his head. 'I wouldn't you know, not without asking your permission. Well, at least not unless you told me that you were going to blow up the Houses of Parliament or something, something really big. I would just have told you that you were being a stupid idiot and to take the medication, then with your permission I might have talked to them about changing your doses to make you feel less zonked out. Is that why you stopped taking them?'

'Yes. I couldn't cope with feeling as if my brain wasn't working.'

'Bet its not working now.'

'Its not great, no.'

'Can I tell them what you've been up to? So they can sort out your meds properly without knocking you for six.'

'Okay.'

'Good.'

'Matt can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'Are there cameras in here, microphones? Can they hear what I'm saying?'

Matt chuckled. 'No, thats just the paranoia again. There's just the observation hatch in the door. If you're on your own in here they'll check on you - every five, ten, fifteen minutes, depends on which observations you're on.'

'Oh.' He considered, trying to kick start his brain into action. 'So how do the nurses get help when they need it. People seem to arrive so fast.'

'Call button. See?' He showed Sherlock the small black box attached to his belt. 'This one calls for another nurse, this red ones the panic button - brings the cavalry here in double quick time. Sounds like they've pushed that button for you a few times recently.'

'So no cameras?'

'No.'

'And - they haven't got some weird way of being able to hear what I'm thinking, only sometimes...'

'No, thats just paranoia. Feels like it sometimes though doesn't it? They're just really good at knowing how peoples brains work, so sometimes they know just because they've worked it out.'

The soft click of the door announced Clare's return from break. 'Thanks Matt,' she said, then, 'You're awake. Finally.'

'Can I tell her?' Matt asked

Sherlock nodded.

'You were right, Clare. About Sherlock not taking all of his medication. He's stopped everything apart from the prozac and the lorazepam, thats why everything kicked off yesterday.'

'Hmmm. I like being right, generally, but not this time. How did you do it?'

'Palmed them, and then washed them down the sink.'

'You going to do it again?'

'No. I don't want another day like yesterday.'

'Good, nor do I, thanks.'

'So can you stop giving me so much sedation, please?'

'Let me get your evening meds, and you can tell me what you've actually been taking, and then we can work it back from there. I'll get you some food too, don't shake your head at me, you need to eat. Matt are you okay here for a minute?'

'Sure.'

'Why don't you want to eat?' Matt asked as the door shut behind her.

Sherlock shrugged. 'I'm just not hungry. It all just feels like too much of an effort.'

'Did you eat at home?'

'I don't remember.'

'Foods kind of important you know. You lose much more weight they'll decide you've got an eating disorder and shove a tube down your nose.'

'So I'm told.'

'You don't seem bothered by that.'

'I don't mind being fed, I don't like being this skinny, I just can't face eating.'

'Then you probably don't have an eating disorder. What were meal times like in your house?'

'I don't remember.'

'Try. The memories are all there, you know. They haven't been deleted, you've just lost your method of accessing them.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Not today,' he said.

'Up to you. They won't let you out until you put on some weight though, you know, so might be worth trying to work that one through.' He looked at his watch. 'I'm off in twenty minutes, but I'll come and see you tomorrow if you want, take you outside if the rain holds off?'

'Okay.'

Matt would make a good psychologist, he thought. He was good at knowing the right think to say, and he didn't take any prisoners. Sherlock respected that. Yet at the same time he was aware that in the outside world he and Matt would never have been friends, not that they were friends now. Matt was too cool, and Sherlock would have thought him - vacuous he supposed, not intelligent enough to bother with. Sometimes he wondered if he had been a very nice person before all of this, then vaguely remembered that nice was never something that had been important to him.

Clare arrived with a tray of food and two pots of medication - one pot looked familiar, they were the tablets he was meant to have been taking, the other contained a cocktail or orange, blue and white pills.

'So,' she said, pulling up another chair to the bed. These are what you're meant to be taking. How about you tell me what you stopped taking and when.

Sherlock looked and them and hesitated, then looking up cauight Matt's eye. Matt just nodded at him, 'Honesty, remember? Best way.'

Sherlock sighed. 'The orange ones I stopped taking three maybe four days ago, I'm losing track of time. The first day I went outside with Matt.

'Saturday, so thats four days ago.'

'Then the green one I stopped taking the next day, the white and the red one the day after that.'

'But you kept taking the prozac and the lorazepam, why?'

'I tried not taking the lorazepam. It didn't go well. I knew that the prozac was an antidepressant, and I didn't want to go back to feeling like I did at the beginning.'

'So you accept that you're depressed?'

'I accept that I feel depressed, but whether thats coming from me or from something I'm being given I don't know.'

'Its a start though. So, are you going to take you medication now?'

'What now, now, or generally?'

'Both.'

'Yes,'

'Why?'

Sherlock sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. 'Because I don't want another day like yesterday. I never want another day like yesterday.'

'Then we're agreed on something. Matt, do you need to get off? You're finishing at seven aren't you?'

Matt stretched and considered. 'Yeah, but I'll stick around for a bit, if Sherlock wants me to that is. Things are just getting interesting.'

'I'm not a performing seal,' Sherlock said sulkily.

'No, you're certainly not. If you were, you wouldn't be nearly as interesting.'

'And I'm not a lab rat either.'

'Nope, agree with that one too. Sherlock I'm trying to help. Not because I want to study you, but because I think you're a good kid who's going through a shit time, and if I'm honest, because you remind me of me.'

'Is that a compliment or an insult?'

Matt laughed. 'Bit of both probably. So. How about that dinner?'

Sherlock lifted the lid on the plate of food. sausages, mashed potato, peas, gravy. He replaced it quickly. 'I don't think so,' he said.

'Why not?'

He shrugged. 'Oh, I get it, ' Matt said. 'Drugs in the mash, in the gravy, right?'

'Maybe I'm just not hungry.'

'Maybe you're not. I've got an idea. Do you like milkshakes?'

'What?'

'You'll see. Clare why don't you get Sherlock one of those build-up drink things, still in the carton, so he can see nobody has tampered with it.'

Clare looked a little perplexed. 'I'm going to trust that there's method to your madness, so - okay.'

'What are you doing?' Sherlock asked as Clare left the room.

'Proving a point. Look the meals come in a trolley, they're not individual, they're not labelled for rooms unless people are on a special diet.'

'So?'

'So there's no way that any one could know which meal you were going to get. Nobody's putting drugs in the food, Sherlock.'

'What about the people who get the food off the trolley? There could be a mark on the tray, a way of them knowing which tray is meant for me.'

'The nurses do that. Clare and Sarah are your main nurses, right? Do you think that they're trying to drug you?'

'No,'

'There you go then. So now are you going to eat your dinner.'

Sherlock considered. 'No.'

'Why not?' The buzz and click of the door announced Clare's return with several cartons of milkshake and a plastic tumbler.

'Has he made you think that black's white yet Sherlock? He'll make a good psychitarist one day.'

'Psychologist,' Matt corrected, unless I decide to go back to medical school which I might, and yes I will. Sherlock thinks that the foods drugged, Clare.'

'I know, we had this discussion this morning.'

'I've explained to him that it wouldn't be possible to selectively drug his food, to know that he was going to get one particular tray, but either he doesn't believe me, or he just doesn't want to eat.'

Sherlock shut his eyes and rubbed them. 'Matt, I'm tired, can't we just leave this?'

'No, its just getting interesting.'

'Clare?'

'Not going to get any help from me, I'm afraid. I think he's onto something.'

'So,' Matt continued. Three cartons of milkshake. Have a look at them and agree with me that they haven't been tampered with. Sherlock inspected them carefully. They were sealed, there was no way they could have been opened, and even injecting something into them would have left a mark.

'These came from the ward kitchen, right?' Clare nodded, 'From a crate of the things, you've never had them before so nobody would have a reason to tamper with them.'

'Fine, so?'

'So pick one and I'll open it for you and then you're going to drink it.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I don't want to.'

'Exactly.'

'What are you trying to say?'

'I'm trying to say that I think that this is all about control for you, just like in the physio gym the other day - we do all talk to each other you know Sherlock, it came up in report. I think that you don't like being told what to do and you kick against it, but there's more than that. I think that when you crack is when you're told what to do with your body, when people try and take away your autonomy, and you can't cope with that.'

'And I think that you're talking out of your arse.'

'Then prove it. Pick a milkshake and drink it.'

'Fine.' He chose one, strawberry, it looked like the least offensive, although it was still an alarming pink colour. Matt opened the carton, poured it into the tumbler and handed it to Sherlock who reluctantly drank it. It was okay, tasted a bit chemically, from all the stuff they added to it - vitamins and protein powder he presumed, but it was okay.

'So what does that prove?'

'I have absolutely no idea. Interesting though isn't it? Clare what do you think?'

'I think that if Sherlock would drink one of those three times a day then we would stop nagging him so much about eating and he might finally start to put on weight. In a carton if you want, Sherlock, so you can check it. How would that be?'

'Do they come in nicer flavours?'

'Different flavours, yes. Nicer, thats a matter of opinion.'

'I'll give it a try.'

'Good,' Clare said, 'now medication.'

'About that...' Sherlock said

'What about it? You said you were going to take it.'

'Yes but all of it? I'll be knocked out for another twelve hours.'

'Which is exactly what we want you to be. You can cut it down tomorrow, take less haloperidol for a start, but for tonight just take the medication and give yourself a nightmare-free night. Its not the time to start cutting down on things.

Sherlock sighed and picked up the pot of tablets, shook it, counted the tablets, five in all and then swallowed them. Clare picked up a pentorch and waited until he opened his mouth to prove he'd swallowed them, then checked his hands.

'Still don't trust me?'

'Do you blame me, after the conversation we've had this evening?'

'And on that note,' Matt said, 'I'm going to leave you to it. I'll come and see you tomorrow, Sherlock.'

'Sure.'

He wanted, for some strange reason to say thank you, but he couldn't. He just stared at Matt for a minute, puzzled as to why he was bothering with him, why he had stayed late to spend time with him. He wanted to come up with a conspiracy theory, but he was just too tired to try and follow it through.

Matt was standing up and replacing the chair. 'You on tomorrow Clare?' he asked

'Yes, third long day of three.'

'Then I'll see you tomorrow. Goodnight Sherlock.'

'Night.'

Later, after Clare had handed him over to the nightshift, and Laurie, the older nurse he remembered from his early days had taken up her position by the door, Sherlock lay in bed contemplating. He had made things worse, that much was clear. His attempt to come off his medication had left him panicky, incoherent, and attempting to pull his brain out through his ears or something similar. His scalp was still sore from where he had tried to pull clumps of hair out yesterday, fortunately without much success. So the medication had to stay, but now he was back to being on so much sedation that he could hardly think.

If Matt was correct about the food then he wasn't being drugged via that, or via the medication. He could think of no other way that he could be being drugged, which left only one possible explanation. This was real. He really was ill. His mind really had fallen apart all on its own, and these people, the staff were really trying to help him put it back together. He liked the conspiracy theories better. He was tired, so tired, yet still he couldn't sleep. Frustrated he banged the pillow, forgetting that Laurie was still in the room, reading quietly by the light of the lamp in the corner. She came over to the bed. 'You okay? Can't sleep?'

'I've been sleeping all day.'

'Best thing for you. I can get you another sleeping tablet?'

He shook his head, and then despite his best efforts the events of the last few days hit him with full force and he started to cry.

Laurie put a hand on his shoulder, and then when the tears turned to sobs, sat him up and let him rest his head on her shoulder. She reminded him of someone who had held him like this as a child. Not his mother, someone older. A nanny maybe? Someone who he had trusted, someone who made him feel safe.'

'Its real, isn't it?' he asked, 'All of this is real. There's no conspiracy, nobody has put me here. I've gone mad, and now I'm locked up in here.'

'You're not locked up, Sherlock, you're being looked after. Its not a prison.'

'I want to go home.'

'I know you do, and you will, just give us a chance to get you well first. Stop fighting us, can you do that?'

He nodded into her shoulder, knowing that he should pull away, pull himself together, but not wanting to lose the comfort of it. Laurie just held him, letting him cry, until he finally pulled away.

'Sorry,' he mumbled.

'Always the apologies with you. Its fine, its what we're here for. I'm going to get you some more sedation, okay? Let you sleep.'

A tray with a filled syringe in it had arrived on his bedside table at some point, but he had no recollection of anyone coming into the room. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. 'How?' he asked.

'I called for help, one of the other nurses brought it in a while ago. There's no magic, Sherlock, you're just not thinking straight, thats all.'

And he believed her, for maybe the first time, because believing it was suddenly easier than the constant challenge of trying to work everything out. He let her give him the sedation and he slept, peacefully and dreamlessly until late the next morning.


	18. Chapter 18

He felt groggy when he woke. Too much medication, but he was too tired to fight it anymore. When Clare handed him the paper cup of medication he went to take them without even being asked. 'Wait, wait,' she said. 'Don't you want to know what they are? What we've cut down?'

'No,' he shook his head, 'I don't care what they are. I just want something to make this better.'

'Not giving up on me are you?' she asked lightly. 'Thats not like you. Where's the argument, the fight?'

'Too tired,' he said. 'I'm done with fighting.'

She still checked that he had taken the tablets, though. It was becoming a routine. Show her his hands, open his mouth for the pen torch.

He let her cajole him into eating breakfast, although everything tasted like cardboard. If they were drugging him, then let them. He couldn't win, he knew that now. Trying to get out of bed to get to the shower his legs felt shaky, and he had to let Clare help him, much to his humiliation. He still refused to go for physiotherapy though and for once Clare didn't push him on this.

'So what happens today?' he asked finally, when he was back on the bed, fully dressed, but too light-headed from the new medication to risk sitting in the chair. He wanted to sleep, but it was obvious from Clare's expression that this was not an option.

'Dr Harrison is coming to see you, then CBT later with Gemma.'

Sherlock groaned. 'Do I have to? I don't like her.'

'I thought that you weren't fighting anymore? Give it a try Sherlock. It might help.'

'I just don't like her Clare. I don't mind talking to you, or Sarah, or Dr Harrison, or even Matt for that matter. Why can't I do CBT with Matt?'

'Because he's not trained. Gemma is, and she's the clinical psychologist here. Just give it another try, please.'

Sherlock's session with Dr Harrison was remarkably benign. This was an extra session, he explained, because of everything that had gone on over the last few days. Usually he would see Dr Harrison three times a week, Gemma Haynes twice a week. They laid down some ground rules. Sherlock would take his medication, he would cooperate with he treatment schedule, although they agreed to disagree about the physiotherapy. Dr Harrison was intrigued with Matt's theory about Sherlock's issues with control, about people analysing his body, getting too close.'

'And yet you don't mind the nursing care.'

'Thats different, I know them. Besides they looked after me when I was really ill, when I really didn't have any control over it. They've seen it all before, but the physios are different. It feels as if they're judging and I can't cope with that.'

'Then we'll leave the physiotherapy - for now. How about going out into the garden, with an escort. Starting to do some walking there.'

'Fine.'

'And you'll see Gemma Haynes later, try and cooperate with the CBT?'

'If I have to.'

'You do.'

'Then fine.'

Dr Harrison narrowed his eyes and stared at him for a full minute.

'What happened?' he asked finally.

'How do you mean?'

'This isn't another elaborate plan is it, Sherlock? Because this is all going a little too smoothly for my liking.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I just want it to stop,' he said. 'This mess in my head, I just want it all to go away.'

'Do you think that it will?'

'No. So silence is the best that I can hope for.'

'I thought you wanted to get home. Yesterday you were desperate to get home.'

'Not like this.'

'So you accept that you are ill.'

'Its the only logical explanation.'

'Oh I see.'

'You do, what? What do you see?'

'Accepting that you have a mental illness is a little like the stages of bereavement. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. You got stuck on denial for a long time, you've worked through anger in the last couple of days, bargaining you seem to have skipped altogether and now you're depressed about being depressed.'

'I'm not a fucking textbook.'

'No, and you apparently haven't got over your anger yet either, although I suspect that might just be you. Look at it this way. Do you think that you can get better? Take a minute, think about it honestly.'

Sherlock considered. 'No.'

'So whats the best thing that can happen.'

'I can take enough medication to numb my brain so that it stops hurting and I no longer care.'

'Exactly. And if I left a pot of those tablets on the table over there, enough to stop it hurting permanently, and just to be absolutely clear, I do mean enough to kill you, then what would you do?'

'I would swallow the lot in a heartbeat.'

'You don't seem upset at this idea.'

'I'm not, its the only logical course of action.'

'Can you elaborate on that?'

'I accept that I'm ill. I accept that I have not, as I originally thought been drugged into this state. I don't see how I can get better from this. I can't go home, and besides the thought of even seeing my father terrifies me. Without the medication the inside of my head is intolerable, with it I can't think straight. There is no good outcome from this.'

'I would say that you're thinking fairly straight now.'

'But slow, so slow, and for how long, an hour? Two? Then I'll have to take more medication and sleep to get through it.'

'The medication that you're on takes anything up to six weeks to reach its full effect, and thats if you take it properly. You've only been here for five, and you've been on and off medication for all of that time. We've just switched your tablets to new ones. Its going to take time.'

'Have we had this conversation before?'

'Yes, I'm glad that you remember.'

'Bits of it.'

Dr Harrison looked at his watch. 'I'm going to have to end it here, I'm sorry, I've got another appointment. I'm glad that you've accepted that you're ill, but just bear with us. We will get you well, we will get you back to school and back to a normal life.'

'Back to my normal life?'

'I'm not sure. Purely because for whatever reason I'm not sure thats what you want. Something happened to bring you here, Sherlock, and thats something we still haven't got to the bottom of. Something in your so called normal life. Think on that before our next session.' He held up a hand, 'I know, I know, your memories are gone, but there must be something in those hundreds of sheets of papers of yours that gives you a clue. Something, anything, because that will be the key to getting you well. To working out why you ended up here in the first place.'


	19. Chapter 19

Matt came to see him at lunchtime and found him drinking a milkshake again in place of the refused meal. 'Chocolate?' he asked. 'Is that better or worse than the luminous pink one?'

'Similar but different.' Sherlock told him.

'Better than eating?'

'Sometimes. I had breakfast.'

'Thats something I guess. Are they weighing you every day now?'

'Every day that I can stand up, yes.'

'You okay? You sound, I don't know, defeated.'

'Thats probably a good way of describing it.'

'Tough, isn't it? When you stop trying to blame everyone else, and you realise that the mess is all just the inside of your own head after all. I seem to remember that the conspiracy theories were easier.'

'Was it like this for you?'

'Yeah, I think so, some of it anyway.'

'How did you get out of it?'

'Talked, listened, took my medication. Well okay, I didn't take my medication at first, and then I finally saw sense and did. It got better eventually, took a bloody long time though.'

'I don't see how this can ever get better.'

'But thats all part of it isn't it? All part of the illness. How are those voices of yours?'

'Still there. Quieter though, its easier to ignore them.'

'Have they started telling you that you're a worthless human being and that you should throw yourself off the nearest tall building yet?'

'Constantly. How did you know?'

'Because thats what they always do.'

'I wish they'd just shut up.'

'They probably would have by now, if you hadn't stopped your medication.'

'Thanks, thats really helpful.' Sherlock's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

'Sorry. So do you want to go outside?'

'Will they let me?'

'With me and another escort, sure.'

'They're not worried that I'll try and run away?'

'I don't think you're going to be running anywhere for a while, do you?'

'Maybe not. I don't think I will, not today. I just want to sleep.'

'Don't sleep for too long. You've got CBT in an hour.'

Sherlock swore softly. 'Not a fan of the delightful Gemma?'

'Are you?'

'No, not really my type.' For a split second Sherlock wondered what Matt's type was. Boy? Girl? Could go either way he guessed, but Matt wasn't giving away any more clues.

'She's meant to be good though. My advice is go with it, see if it helps - just..'

'Just what?'

'Just be a little careful what you tell her.'

Sherlock looked up at him sharply. Just when all of his conspiracy theories were gone. 'How do you mean?'

Matt glanced over at Clare, busy writing in the corner of the room and ignoring them. Leaning a little closer to Sherlock he said, 'I mean that its great that you're learning to trust people here, but from what I know of your family, there are things that it would be best not to say, to people that you can't entirely trust.'

'You don't think that I can trust Gemma Haynes?'

'I would just be a bit wary of questions thats seem unrelated to what the session is meant to be about - from anybody, thats all.' Speaking louder, Matt said, presumably for Clare's benefit, 'So I'll see you tomorrow? Unless you want to change your mind about going outside.'

'No, thats fine.'

After Matt left, Sherlock pulled out the boxfile and leafed through his papers. The pencil, he noticed, had gone.

'Where's my pencil?' he asked Clare.

'You can have it back in a few days,' Clare said.

'You think that I'm going to try and hurt myself with a pencil?'

'We're just being careful.'

'Is that why you won't leave me on my own?'

'Yes. Why, do you mind?'

'Its a little frustrating, but no, not really. I'm less panicky when someone else is here.'

'Its only for a few days, until the new medication kicks in, then you should start to feel better.'

'Okay, fine.'

And it was fine, he realised. He'd got used to Clare's quiet presence, and the thought of being on his own was - terrifying. Why? He didn't entirely trust himself, he realised. Didn't really know what he might do, or what his mind might make him do. He felt disconnected, as if the two halves of his brain were working independently, one side arguing with the other. Perhaps that was exactly what it was trying to do, perhaps that explained the voices. Good cop, bad cop. Weird.

The sharp click of the door made him jump. he had almost been asleep, he realised, resting back against the bed, eyes closed. 'Its okay,' Clare said, 'Its just Gemma.'

She was better today, less pushy, calmer. They went through some relaxation techniques, talked through some of his conspiracy theories, it was easier now that he had largely discarded them, but he liked the process. Come up with a theory, pull up the related thoughts, tease them apart, divide them nto evidence for and against, evaluate the evidence in each pile and come to the logical conclusion. It was a useful process, he realised, not unlike how he approached something he was trying to solve in the real world.

Then, half an hour in, she started to ask him about his father. It jarred, strangely discordant with their previous conversation, and he remembered Matt's murmured warning.

'Why do you want to know about my father?'

'Because its part of your delusions.'

'I don't remember telling you that.' His brain might be slowed by the sedation, but he still wasn't stupid.

'Its in your notes. We have case discussions, remember?'

'And is that what I am, a case?'

'No, you're a client, a patient, an are you changing the subject?'

'Maybe I don't want to talk about my father.'

'Maybe you need to talk about your father.'

'Not with you.'

'Why not,'

'Because I don't want to.'

He was getting angry, he knew that he was getting angry. Clare looked up from the desk. There was a desk there now, in the corner of the room, another sign that this constant watching wasn't going to go away any time soon. 'Okay?' she asked.

Sherlock sat back hard against the pillows on the bed, closing his eyes, slowing his breathing as he had been taught. 'Yes, I'm okay,' he said after a few minutes.

'Why does talking about your father have this effect on you?' Gemma was asking.

'I don't know.'

'Don't you want to know?'

'Not really.'

'I don't think thats true.'

'You think that I'm lying?' his tone was incredulous. 'Why would I lie?'

'I don't think that you're lying, no, I think that its a defence mechanism.

Matt had been right, she was good.

'This feels more like psychoanalysis than CBT. I thought this was meant to be CBT.'

'Sometimes these things cross over.'

'I can't remember anything,' Sherlock said, frustrated, 'I keep telling people that.'

'Which people? James Harrison?'

'Everyone. All the people who keep asking.

'And why do you think we keep asking?'

'Because the answers to why I'm here are in in my head, my memory, I know that, but I can't access them, I keep telling people!' He was shouting now, frustrated. Clare was there, hand on his shoulder now, trying to get him to calm down.

'Maybe thats enough for one day, Gemma.'

'That depends on Sherlock, doesn't it. What do you think?'

'I think that I don't want to talk about it.'

'How about the nightmares, do you want to talk about those? Because I think its your father who's chasing you Sherlock, thats what I think. Why would you dream about that, do you think? Why would you wake up so afraid?'

Sherlock stared at her in horror. What was she implying. He was awake, but it was as if the nightmare was playing itself out in front of his eyes, a cinema screen with him on it. His heart was pounding, his breath coming short and fast, eyes squeezed shut, trying to close out the image; and yet it was still there because it was inside his head.

'He said that he didn't want to talk about it,' Clare was shouting at Gemma, obviously furious. He had never heard her raise her voice before. 'Get out, now. You've done enough for one day.'

He heard the door click shut, distantly, but still the film in his head wouldn't stop. He was running, running, branches catching on his clothes, scraping against his face, and the monster was getting closer and closer to him. But at the same time he was aware of Clare's arms holding him, of her voice calm, reassuring, telling him to stay with her, to slow his breathing down, to breathe with her. In and out. In and out. Slowly the film faded, and he was back in the room, clinging onto Clare, face wet with tears, and James Harrison was somehow in the room with them.

'What happened?' he asked Clare quietly, after she had settled Sherlock back in the bed and he had curled up under the covers exhausted, feeling as if he had just run a marathon.

'She pushed him too far,' she told him, retreating to the desk in the corner. Drowsily Sherlock tried to listen to their murmured conversation. Conspiracy theories aside, something wasn't right here, even Clare knew it, he could tell from her voice.

'What were they talking about?'

'His father, its always his father. But something was wrong, James. She brought the conversation round to that deliberately. He said that he didn't want to talk about it and she ignored him and kept going. Then I asked her to stop the session and she brought up the nightmares, even though he was already starting to panic. She triggered this. Its as if she was trying to push him until he cracked, to see what came out.'

'Thats a dangerous technique even in patients who are stable.'

'And not one for CBT, from what I've seen, and certainly not without warning other staff members what you're going to do. If she'd asked me, I would have told her he wasn't ready for it; if she'd insisted I would have had sedation ready, but this was - unprovoked, almost unplanned.'

'I'll talk to her about it.'

'Please do, and James - I know its not really my place to say this, but I want her kept away from him, for a few days at least. He's been through enough recently. This is the last thing that he needs.'

'Point taken.'

Dr Harrison walked over to the bed. 'Sherlock?'

Sherlock forced his eyes open and looked at him dazed.

'How are you doing?'

Sherlock shook his head. James Harrison rested a hand on his shoulder.

'I'm sorry. That shouldn't have happened. It wasn't part of the plan at all.'

'Keep her away from me, please.'

'I will, I will. Do you think that you can sleep?'

'Yes, if you'll all just shut up and leave me alone.'

James Harrison smiled, despite himself. 'Then we'll do just that. Clare's here if you need her though, okay?'

'kay.'


	20. Chapter 20

James Harrison was furious. What on earth did Gemma think that she was playing at? Resisting the temptation to confront her directly, he went straight to the director of the clinic.

'James? What can I do for you.'

'Gemma Haynes has been interfering with the psychoanalysis on one of my patients. She's put him back days, maybe weeks with completely unprecedented techniques. Spun him into a panic attack when he'd only just started to open up and trust us. Despite him and the nursing staff asking her to stop.'

'Which patient?'

'Sherlock Holmes.'

'What happened?'

James Harrison outlined events, including Sherlock's nightmares and his previous terror at the mention of his father, together with the CBT session today and Clare's perception that Gemma Haynes had fairly deliberately manipulated the topic of conversation round to Sherlock's father.

'Did he say anything about it?'

'Only that he couldn't remember and he didn't want to talk about it. But there's more. She implied that it was his father in his nightmares, that he was running away from.'

'Is that something that he has ever said?'

'Categorically not. Its an instinctive leap and not an unreasonable avenue to explore, but not yet, and my experience is that you have to be extremely careful about laying false memories specially in a patient with such severe memory loss and on such high doses of medication. He' s very vulnerable at the moment, and very suggestible.

'Now why, on earth would she want to do that?'

'I have no idea, but I want her kept away from him. Find another psychologist, bring one in from outside if you have to, or I'll find time to do both sessions with him. Its taken us weeks to get him to trust us, to accept whats happening to him, and I don't want her anywhere near him.'

'I appreciate that, and I have to say that I'm in complete agreement. Is this an isolated incident or have you had problems with other patients?'

'No, she seems to be very good. A little flirty perhaps, but otherwise I've not had any problems.'

'I'll speak to her.'

But as the door closed behind James Harrison, the first person that the Director picked up the phone to talk to was not Gemma Haynes, but Viscount Holmes.

...

Sherlock Holmes was oblivious to all of this, sleeping under sedation in his hospital room, the nurse watching him from the desk by the door. Checking on him regularly as he slept because of the amount of medication that he was on. Respiratory rate, pulse, oxygen saturations, then stroking a black curl back behind his ear and watching his sleeping face. Poor boy, she thought, to end up here in this state with so few visitors, so few people who seemed to care. Just the father who phoned to bark orders, and the brother, already middle-aged before his twenty fifth birthday, and seemingly as incapable of emotion as the father. What chance did this sleeping boy have of a normal life now?


	21. Chapter 21

Waking the next morning, Sherlock was surprised to see Sarah rather than Clare opening his curtains and smiling at him. 'Where's Clare?' he asked sleepily, rubbing his eyes.

'Day off,' Sarah told him. 'We don't work every day, you know, you've got me today and tomorrow. Is that okay?'

'Um, yes, I guess, its fine.' He felt strangely guilty, waiting to be told off. He had after all started concealing the tablets when Sarah had been looking after him.

'Sounds as if you've had quite a time of it, the last few days,' Sarah said lightly. 'Waiting for the lecture?'

He smiled slightly, 'Maybe.'

'You won't get one from me, Sherlock. Although I have to confess I'm slightly upset that you didn't feel able to talk to me about it, but then thats paranoia for you. Did you think I was part of the conspiracy?'

'I didn't know. I just felt - locked into myself somehow, as if I had to sort it all out myself. Talking to anyone about it just didn't come into the equation.'

'So you stopped most of your tablets over - what, three days? You must have felt horrible.'

'It wasn't much fun,' he admitted quietly.

'Learnt your lesson?'

'Yes, thanks.'

'Going to talk to us about it next time?'

'I think so.'

'Good. Lecture over then.' She smiled, 'Did you notice how I did that? Said I wasn't going to give you a lecture and did anyway?'

He didn't think that warranted a reply, and instead stared out of the window.

'Breakfast?' came Sarah's voice breaking him out of his revelry.

'If I have to.'

'Eating no better?'

'You tell me. What did they say about me at report?'

'Do you really want to know?'

He shrugged, but didn't say no. 'Okay, they say that you're finally accepting your illness, but that you are still struggling to come to terms with it, that you're becoming less paranoid, and that you are starting to communicate well with certain members of staff.'

'Is that good?'

'Yes. What is very good from my perspective is that we've decided to keep the people that you interact with to a minimum, especially in light of what happened yesterday. Me, Clare, Dr Harrison, Matt. Thats going to be pretty much it, apart from the night staff who you already know. Theory is that will help your paranoia, feeling that you have people around you that you know, that you trust.'

'No more Gemma Haynes?'

'No,' Sarah sounded worried and darted a sharp glance at him. 'Dr Harrison's coming to talk to you about that later. And no more physiotherapy, you'll be glad to hear. We've decided to put you in charge as much as possible.'

'How come?'

'Something that Matt said, actually. About your issues with control, especially around what happens to your body.'

Sherlock stared out of the window again, watching the patterns the sunlight through the leaves made on the window.

'Don't want to talk about it?'

'Not really, no.'

Breakfast had arrived somehow while they were talking. Toast, marmalade, and wonders of wonders a cup of tea.

'We're trying something new,' Sarah told him. 'Giving you things that we know you like, small amounts, not pushing it.'

'Putting me in charge?'

'Exactly.'

'And the tablets?' There was a pot of medication on the table over his bed along with the breakfast tray.

'Are up for discussion, if you wish.'

He shook his head and took them, slowly, one at a time. He didn't want to know.

'Want me to check that you've taken them?'

Strangely he found that he did, and nodded and showed her his hands and inside his mouth.

'Feel safer like that?'

'Yes. Strange.'

'Not really. You want to make your own decisions, but at the same time you don't trust yourself, its all part of the process of accepting that your ill, of gaining insight.'

'Knowing that my head isn't necessarily doing me any favors, you mean.'

'Exactly. There's your logical mind and the part of your mind which is affected by the illness, and its not always possible to predict which part is going to be in charge at any one time.'

'So what do I do?'

You ask, or rather you talk. If you tell us whats going on in your head then we can help you work out whats real and what isn't, what is rational and what is paranoia.'

'A bit like the CBT.'

'In that you're verbalising thoughts and working them through, rather than tying yourself into knots with them, yes.'

'But -' he hesitated, 'what if there really is a conspiracy, what if there are things that I shouldn't be saying, things that would make everything worse.'

'Like what?'

'I don't know. Its just a rhetorical question.'

'Is it? Nothing is without meaning with you, I've come to realise this. Sherlock, everything that you say in this room is confidential. We will talk about it with other members of staff with your permission, but thats it. We won't tell anyone else, certainly not your family. Is that what you're worried about?'

'Maybe.' His fingers were pleating the sheet again, showing his anxiety. He tried to get his hands to still, but they seemed to have a mind of their own today.'

'What you say in therapy, and this still counts as therapy, is confidential. Does that help?'

'Yes, a bit.'

But what about what Matt had said yesterday. About having to tell if he was plotting to blow up the Houses of Parliament. What then? Would they tell the police? If he had done something truly dreadful. What if that was why his father had had him admitted here, to keep him safe, to prevent him from being arrested. What then?

Sarah was watching him closely. 'Come on, spit it out,' she said finally when he remained silent.

'What?'

'Whatever it is that you're sitting there and festering about.' How did they do that? No wonder he had thought that they could read his mind.

'Would you ever tell the police?' he asked, 'If someone had done something really bad.'

'Sherlock you're sixteen years old. What kind of really bad thing could you have done.?What do you think that you might have done?'

'I don't know. Its just...'

She had come over and was sitting in the chair by the bed. Waiting for melt-down he thought, just in case.

'You need to bring it out into the light, remember? Even if you think its ridiculous, if its going round and round in your head then its better to talk about it.'

Sherlock looked down at his hands, working on a piece of loose skin at the side of his thumb with his other finger until it started to bleed. Sarah caught the hand that was holding the damage and held it. He put his bleeding thumb in his mouth sheepishly.

'Give it a try,' she said.

'Its just a theory. But what if I did something before I got ill, something so dreadful that it triggered this. What if...'

He tailed off. Sarah was still holding onto one of his hands, to stop it doing any more damage, but he was now chewing on his wounded thumb, using his teeth to pull shreds of skin off the side of it. He tasted blood. Sarah pulled it from his mouth with her free hand, gave him a stern look and handed him a tissue to wrap round it after briefly inspecting the damage.

'Taking it out on your thumbs is not a particularly adaptive coping strategy you know,' she said lightly. 'Sherlock if you had done something to bring you here, we would know. Your family would have told us.'

'What if they were trying to cover it up?'

'Do you have any evidence for this? A memory, something from a dream, anything?'

He shook his head. 'No, its just a theory.'

'Then I would say that its unlikely to be true. Your subconscious is usually very good at bringing up memories associated with strong emotion. If you had killed someone, then the memory would be coming back to you in some form, I can guarantee it. Thats not something that you would be able to wipe.'

'What about the nightmares?'

'But you're not the aggressor in those, are you? You're the one being chased. No, Sherlock if something happened to bring you here then I would say that it is far more likely that it happened to you, rather than being done by you.'

She gave him a moment to let this sink it, then added. 'There's something else that you could consider. I know that your memories of your family are patchy, but had you done something, something dreadful, do you really think that your family would have tried to cover it up in this way, or would they have gone to the police?'

'I don't know.'

'Put it this way, do you think that either your brother or your father would risk a scandal and implicating themselves to protect you?'

'No, of course not.' Sherlock looked at her in surprise. 'You're right. From what I remember, they will both always look after themselves first. They wouldn't risk it.'

'There you go then. Does that help?'

'Yes.'

'There's something else. People don't randomly go about killing people, Sherlock, it comes from some deep damage in their character. I don't see that in you. You are different certainly, but a killer? No. You don't have it in you.'

Sherlock sighed and felt his shoulders drop several inches. She was right. It was unlikely that he had done anything truly dreadful, but what did that leave? He was too tired to think about it now.

'Anything else you're worried about?'

He shook his head.

'Good. So how about you eat your breakfast and leave that other thumb of yours alone.'

She was right. He was chewing on his other thumb without noticing it.

'We'll have to get you scratch mitts if you keep that up,' she said with a smile to show that she was joking. 'I'll get you some plasters to remind you to leave them alone.'


	22. Chapter 22

He left the box file in the bedside locker that day, he didn't want to think about any more conspiracy theories. He slept intermittently and in between lay on the bed, looking out of the window. His mind numbed by the medication, he could quite happily stay here all day, he thought, watching the trees moving in the breeze, and the odd person walking past. He no longer had the sensation of the cogs whirring inside his head. They were still, quiet. The voices too were quieter, easier to ignore. He felt peaceful, still.

The door clicked and Matt's tousled head appeared round it. 'You up to visitors?' he asked. Sherlock liked the fact that he addressed his comment to him, and not to Sarah, who was sitting quietly catching up on some paperwork at the desk by the door.

'Sure.'

'Feeling better?'

'A bit.'

'Better enough to come outside? If thats okay with Sarah, of course.'

'Fine by me,' Sarah said, 'Its got to better than lying there staring out of the window, hasn't it Sherlock?'

Sherlock sat up and yawned. 'I suppose.'

Ten minutes later and Matt was pushing him in a wheelchair across the grass. He had forgotten how beautiful it was out here. So bright, so calm. Everything felt calm today, he hadn't realised how disturbing the voices had been until they had quietened down. Now his head felt as if there was so much more space in it. Everything was clearer, less confused, but at the same time nothing really seemed to matter. He could be here, now, outside in the garden, without feeling the need to analyse anything, to work out any more theories.

Matt parked the wheelchair under a spreading horse chestnut tree and looked at him expectantly.

'Come on then,' he said.

'Come on, what?'

'We're walking to that bench over there,' Matt said, pointing to a bench at the far side of the garden. It looked an inconceivable distance away to Sherlock, who was still struggling to walk to the bathroom and back without help.

'Seriously?'

'Yeah, they've made me your unofficial physio, didn't you know? Thats the deal. You start doing some walking with me out here and you don't have to go and do random things with parallel bars and exercise balls in the gym.'

Sherlock looked at Sarah, checking that this was okay. She nodded. 'You're the one who said that you didn't need the physios, remember? Time to start proving it.'

'Fine, but I might need to hold on to somebody. My balance is still off from all those pills.'

Sarah offered him an arm, and unsteadily he stood up and walked slowly across the lawn towards the bench. It felt like a very, very long way, but eventually he reached the bench and sank down on it gratefully.

'You can head back inside if you want Sarah,' Matt said as he sat down next to Sherlock. 'I don't think this ones going to do a runner somehow, do you?'

'Probably not, but I'll stick around anyway,' Sarah said, looking at Sherlock thoughtfully. 'Just in case.'

Just in case what, Sherlock wondered, as Sarah left them to sit on a bench a short distance away, leaving him to talk to Matt.

'So, better today?' Matt asked.

'Sort of. Quieter anyway. I'd forgotten how good silence could be.'

'Have they gone? Your voices?'

'Not completely, but they're not there all the time anymore, and when they are there its getting easier to - I don't know, tune them out.'

'Amazing isn't it? When you take the tablets they actually work,'

Sherlock decided not to react to Matt's sarcasm. 'Its better,' he said shortly.

'Good.' They sat in silence for a while.

'So what happened yesterday with Gemma Haynes?' Matt asked finally.

Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck. 'You know you do that whenever you don't like the question?' Matt commented. 'You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to.'

'No, its fine. It was - weird. She just kept pushing me to talk about my father, and eventually I just...'

'Lost it?' Matt finished his sentence for him. 'I'm not surprised. She wasn't meant to do that, and now she's in all kinds of shit for it. Supervised appointments, the director reviewing all of her cases. Not pretty at all.'

Sherlock shivered, despite the warmth of the day.

'You okay?' Matt asked him.

'I just don't like talking about this stuff.'

'About your Dad? I know. Thats fine.'

'How did you know?' Sherlock asked him slowly. 'You told me to be careful about what I said to her. How did you know what she was going to ask me about?'

'I didn't,' Matt said. 'It was just a hunch. There's something that doesn't ring true about her. If you were going to pick someone to trust it wouldn't be her.'

Sherlock didn't want to come up with conspiracy theories anymore. He was too tired and his brain was barely functioning on the medication. The silence inside his head was becoming almost deafening. He stared hard at the ground, trying to keep it together. 'You okay?' Matt asked. Then when Sherlock remained silent, 'You know its better if you talk about it.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'Its not logical,' he said.

'All the more reason to talk about it. If it was logical then you wouldn't be here. Thats exactly the point.'

'You won't like it.'

'Try me.'

'I'm trying very hard to stay away from conspiracy theories. They make my head hurt, and even stringing a sentence together is hard enough at the moment, let alone trying to come up with logical thought.'

'You think I know more than I'm letting on?'

'I'm a little confused by what you said about Gemma, thats all.'

Matt sighed, and checked that Sarah wasn't listening in. She glance over at Matt who gave her a thumbs up. She turned and watched a group of people, staff and patients sitting chatting on the grass nearby.

'Okay, I'll tell you what I know, because I think your heads a complicated enough place as it is without me making it worse. But you have to promise me that you'll stay calm and not let Sarah realise what we're talking about. Can you do that?'

'I'll try.'

'Good. Sherlock you have to realise that because of who your father is, and what he does, there are people who might want to find information about you in the hope of discrediting him, or worse.'

'How do you know what my father does?'

Matt sighed and looked uncomfortable. 'The answer that I should give you is that its written in your notes - that he's a peer and sits in the House of Lords, and that he's a successful business man. But the honest answer is that I was at college with your brother, and the rumour was that he is a man with many fingers in many pies, and not a man that you cross lightly.'

Sherlock stared at Matt in disbelief, then remembering Sarah looked down, and rearranged his features into a more neutral expression.

'You - were at college with Mycroft?'

'Yes. We weren't friends. That won't surprise you, but we were - aware of each other. Your brother and I have certain things in common that I won't go into.'

'So I did see you talking to Mycroft that day.'

'Yes. There's no conspiracy Sherlock. Mycroft had no idea that I was working here, it was a chance meeting. He asked me to keep an eye on you, that was all. I would have done that anyway.'

'What else did he say?'

Sherlock was curious to see if Matt's account would tie in with the snippets of conversation that he had overheard.

'Just that you were here, that he was worried about you, and that there might be people here who would try to get information from you about your father for their own purposes. Information that would do both him and you a great deal of harm.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and slumped in the seat. Sarah noticed, of course she did. 'Sherlock? You okay?'

He opened his eyes and looked at her. 'Yes, I'm fine. Just tired.'

'Do you want to go back in?'

'Not yet. Another ten minutes? I'll let you know.'

'So there really was a conspiracy,' he said to Matt quietly.

'I wouldn't call it a conspiracy, but someone who is not as they seem, yes, certainly.'

'And you think that person is Gemma Haynes? Why?'

'Because she tried to pump me for information about you. On Monday when you were too ill to see her.'

'What did she say?'

'It wasn't so much what she said, rather what she did.'

'What did she do?'

'Flirted with me, suggested we went out for a drink, then casually slipped your name into the conversation to see what she could get out of me.'

'And what did she get out of you?'

'Nothing. I'm not as stupid as I look and like I said before, she's not my type.'

That again. Sherlock was curious but didn't want to ask. Was Matt gay? Was Mycroft gay? Was he gay? He didn't know, he didn't really think that he was anything, not at the moment anyway. Sex had never been further from his mind, and thinking about this now was a distraction. He had to focus.

'What did she want to know?'

'What you'd said to me about your father and why you were here. I told her that you hadn't even mentioned him. It seemed safest. Then she told me that she thought your father was somehow tied up with you being here, and asked me to tell her if you mentioned anything else. All this with her hand on my thigh, and an awful lot of hair flicking.'

'So thats why she pushed me so hard yesterday.'

'I think so. I wish I could tell you what she's planning to do with the information. All I know is that its nothing good. Did you tell her anything?'

'No. She tried to put words in my mouth though. Tried to get me to say that it was my father in my nightmares.'

'And is it.'

'Yes.'

'Did you tell her?'

'No. She told me.'

There were people walking across the grass towards them, Sherlock realised. Dr Harrison and an older man who he dimly recognised from the early days of his illness. Matt saw them too and started talking fast. Sarah got up and walked towards them. Good, that might buy them some time. 'They're coming to talk to you,' Matt said, 'So here's what you need to do. Tell them you don't remember anything. That you don't know who is chasing you in your nightmares, that Gemma tried to put ideas in your head, and now you're confused about it. Can you do that?'

'Why?'

'Because implanting false memories into a suggestible patient is just about the worst thing a therapist can do, well other than the obvious. Its the best way to get rid of her. Clear?'


	23. Chapter 23

Sarah looked worried, Sherlock registered, as the two men came towards them.

'Sherlock,' Dr Harrison was saying. 'This is Dr Simmonds. He's the director of the clinic. He needs to talk to you.'

'About what?'

'About Gemma Haynes, and your session with her yesterday,' Dr Simmonds said. 'Matt could you give us a minute?'

'Sure,' Matt said, getting up, and surrendering his seat to Dr Simmonds. 'I'll see you later, Sherlock.' And off he sauntered, hands in pockets, whistling quietly as he went. He was almost out of earshot, but Sherlock was fairly sure that he was whistling the theme tune to The Great Escape.

Sherlock considered Dr Simmonds. He didn't like him, he decided. He looking uncomfortably like someone who he associated with pain. Another doctor, the local GP at home maybe? A flash of memory - lying in bed, trying not to cry while someone stitched up a cut on his head. The same person telling him - no, he couldn't think about it. He wouldn't. Put it in the box and shut the lid, try to concentrate on what this man was trying to say to him.

'My concentration's not very good,' he said, by means of explanation. 'You'll have to say that again.'

'I was asking you to tell me what you and Gemma Haynes had discussed yesterday.'

'Why? Is she in trouble?'

Sarah and Dr Harrison were standing to the side. Instinctively he looked at Sarah for reassurance and she gave him a worried smile.

'Perhaps we shouldn't be doing this out here,' Dr Harrison said warily. 'Perhaps this conversation would be better conducted inside.'

'In case I melt down again?' Sherlock asked calmly. He was in charge now. This he could cope with. It was his game. 'I won't, its fine.'

'So can you tell me what you talked about.'

'You didn't answer my question.'

'I'm starting to see what your father means,' Dr Simmonds said, with edge of irritation to his voice. So this was a man who didn't like to be crossed. Good, he could use that.

'You've talked to my father about me?' He looked at Sarah who almost imperceptibly shook her head at him, worried.

'Of course. He is concerned about you Sherlock.'

'Is he now.' Sarah was right. Even this much conversation about his father brought on a feeling of panic. He closed his eyes, took a couple of deep breaths and put that in the box too.

'I had a session with Gemma Haynes yesterday,' he said, hoping that talking would help to anchor him in the present. 'It started out as standard CBT, well as standard as I can assess from my previous session. We talked through some of my thought processes, pulled out the evidence, examined them, talked about alternative explanations for them, conspiracy theories mainly. Then she asked about my father, I told her I didn't want to talk about it, she pushed it, and then I lost it.'

'Did her questioning lead on from anything you had been discussing before?'

'No.'

'It came completely out of the blue.'

'Yes.'

'And did she say anything else?'

Sherlock glanced at Sarah again, but her face was impassive. 'She told me that she thought the monster in my nightmares was my father. She said that I was afraid of him, and implied that it was for a good reason.'

'And is the monster in your nightmares your father?'

Keeping his expression neutral, betraying none of the panic which was threatening to overwhelm him, Sherlock replied, 'I don't know. I've never seen its face.'

'And did talking to Gemma Haynes make you think that it might be?'

'I'm trying very hard not to think about it,' Sherlock said through gritted teeth. Sarah was there then, hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she was there.

'With respect, Dr Simmonds, I think thats enough,' she said quietly. 'I'm going to take Sherlock back to his room now unless you have any objections.'

'No, thats fine,' Dr Simmonds said. 'Thank you for your time, Sherlock.' And he was gone.

'Come on,' Sarah said quietly, and dazed, Sherlock let her help him back into the wheelchair. His legs were shaking so badly he could hardly stand, and he was grateful for Dr Harrison's help on the other side. He hid his face in his hands as Sarah pushed him back to his room, then lay down on the bed and hid his face in the pillow. Sarah pulled a chair up and sat next to him, ignoring Dr Harrison who was somewhere on the other side of the room. Sherlock didn't care.

'Could you ask one of the other nurses to get Sherlock some medication please?' she said quietly. He thought that she was angry, but he couldn't be sure.

'Of course,' he said. 'Sarah, I -'

'Not now, ' she snapped. 'We can talk about this later.'

So she was angry Sherlock registered dazedly, but their voices were coming as if from a distance. He needed to hold it together or he was going to lose it again.

Tablets arrived, which he somehow managed to swallow. There was a syringe on a tray too he saw, just in case he wasn't able to cooperate. 'I'm okay,' he mumbled to Sarah. 'I just need to sleep.'

And sleep he did, waking briefly later to take more medication, refuse food, not caring what the implications of that might be and then sleeping again, deeply and dreamlessly, wishing that he could sleep forever. Would death be that bad, he wondered, if it was like this, of it stopped everything hurting, if it stopped the panic and the fear.


	24. Chapter 24

When he woke up, Mycroft was sitting by his bed. 'This is getting to be a habit, Sherlock,' he said.

'Go away, Mycroft,' Sherlock said, turning his back to him and banging the pillow to beat it into a more comfortable shape.

'Not until I've talked to you, no.'

Sherlock looked over at the desk in the corner, It was empty. The nightlight was on and the curtains were drawn. It was dark outside, he must have slept all day.

'Where did the nurse go?' he asked surprised. 'They don't normally leave me alone for a second.'

'But you're not alone are you? I'm here. I asked them to give us some privacy, the nurse fortunately complied. But she is waiting just outside, so I wouldn't advise you to raise your voice, and she has given me a panic alarm. Apparently if I press this red button then all of the kings horses and all of the kings men will arrive to prevent you from doing unthinkable things either to me or to yourself.'

'Don't tempt me,' Sherlock said sulkily, pulling himself into a sitting position. 'And I'm fine, thanks for asking.'

'Don't be ridiculous, of course you're not fine. You're heavily sedated in a psychiatric institution.'

'Did you just come here to insult me or is there a purpose to this visit?'

'I told you not to say anything about our father.'

'And I didn't. Things were suggested to me.'

'Did you agree with these things?'

'No, I had a panic attack and ended up sedated for fourteen hours instead.'

'So effectively you agreed.'

Sherlock buried his face in his hands. 'Mycroft this is not something that I can control. I don't remember anything. All I know is that the thought of our father terrifies me, and that in my nightmares I am being chased by a monster that has his face. Now will you please tell me what is going on?'

'I would have thought that it was fairly obvious. Someone is trying to discredit our father, using you as fuel.'

'What? How? Why?'

'The why is the easiest - because he has enemies, and causing a scandal would lets say be embarrassing to more people than just to him and could potentially destroy his career. There are people to whom this would be most advantageous.'

'And how are they planning to do this?' Sherlock was desperately trying to kickstart his brain into action, through the medication, through the sedation, past the whispering voices and the ever lurking edge of panic that the mention of his father brought. Somehow he managed to forge a clear corridor through it all, pushing the memories and the haze to one side, and shutting the doors on it all tightly.

'By bringing up events that are best forgotten.'

'What? Mycroft you need to tell me.'

Mycroft sighed. 'Sherlock if you have genuinely forgotten then it is best that it remains this way. All you need to know is that something happened between you and our father. Something that would cause a great deal of trouble for him if it became publicly known. Something that is over and will never happen again. What you need to do is to tell staff here that you recognise that it is a delusion, part of your illness. During the initial stages of your illness you have discovered from me that you had hallucinations in which our father attacked you. They were not real, our father was in fact out of the country at the time, but you found it impossible to recognise them as false. The fear that you have, the nightmares are a reflection of that, nothing more.'

'Why would I say that?' Sherlock was genuinely confused now.

'Because if you do not, then our father will never let you leave this place. He will do whatever he has to in order to protect his reputation. He will throw you to the lions Sherlock, if that is what it will take.'

And with a cold jolt of realisation, Sherlock realised that Mycroft was right.

'I need to tell me that you can do this Sherlock. That you can keep this to yourself. That you can follow the story that you have been given.'

'Why? To protect the family name?'

'No, to protect yourself.'

Sherlock closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands again. 'Mycroft I don't know if I can. I need the people here, I need their help to get better. How can I do that if I'm lying to them?'

'Take the medication, and put the rest in a box, Sherlock, just as you always have. Deal with it later, once you're home if you need to, or better still, keep the box locked. Dwelling on it won't help.'

Sherlock looked up at his brother suspiciously. 'You know about my box? How do you know about my box?'

'You told me about it. Years ago. It was how you dealt with things then, how you've always dealt with things. Use in now, Sherlock. Put it all in there, shut the lid and move on.'


	25. Chapter 25

And so he did move on, and Mycroft was right, it was easier. He didn't like talking about his father and was uncomfortable coming out with the blatant lie that Mycroft had proposed, so he bypassed the issue by simply refusing to talk about it. Luckily James Harrison became sidetracked and started exploring the avenue that Sherlock's illness could have been triggered by a delayed grief reaction to his mothers death, a tangent that Sherlock was happy to lead him down.

Because things were getting easier. Over the course of a couple of weeks the voices became quieter, and eventually disappeared all together. The medication was starting to work, the panic attacks were becoming less frequent and he had got better at averting them without having to resort to medication. He was starting to eat, starting to put on weight although the nurses still tutted every time he stood on the scales, and pushed those revolting milkshakes on him at every opportunity.

He was walking outside with Matt most days, walking properly now, not being wheeled in a chair. Doing laps of the garden on good days, sitting on a bench and talking on bad days, but still he was getting stronger, getting better. The desk inside the door had been removed and he was being left to his own devices for longer, but was still confined to his room. Still locked in.

He was still deemed high risk, according to Sarah. Because of the severity of his illness, because of the violence of his outbursts. They still thought that he might try to harm himself, or to escape. They were wrong. He didn't want to die, he wanted to get out of this place, but not yet. Alarmingly as time went on he found that he almost liked it there. He was used to it. It was calm, people were nice to him. He could sit in his room and read all day with only minimal interruptions for meals and for therapy sessions. He had to interact with only a handful of people and that was easier too. Meals were annoying, but it was easier to eat than to try to explain why he didn't want to. He could sit and read for hours, and try not to think.

Gemma Haynes had disappeared from the clinic not long after Sherlock's conversation with Dr Simmonds. Security had assisted her to pack up her desk and she had been escorted from the building to a low black limousine which had taken her, despite her protestations, to a series of locked doors and an office in an unassuming block in Whitehall. Mycroft Holmes had done the rest, and whatever he had said to her, whatever levers he had used, no mention of Viscount Holmes or his lunatic son ever appeared in the British press.

...

Three weeks after these events, which had created whispered gossip in the staff room of the kind not seen in years, James Harrison was catching up on paperwork in his office one evening. The paperwork seemed to increase by the day, he thought with a sigh, leaving you with the option to either spend less time with patients, or to spend progressively more of your evenings catching up. No wonder his wife was getting fed up with it. He rarely got home before the children were in bed these days, and keeping his non on-call weekends free was becoming more of a challenge. His secretary knocked on the door, breaking him out of his revelry. She had been working late too.

I'm off,' she said. I've left those reports you wanted typed on my desk for you to sign when you're ready. I'll post them off first thing. Did you see the package from the courier?'

'No, what package?'

'It arrived this afternoon.'

She handed it to him. He opened it with the paper knife he kept on his desk. The knife had been a present from his father soon after he'd qualified, a lovely piece of 1920's glamour. Inside the package were general practice notes - notes belonging to Sherlock Holmes; originals, that was interesting, usually they sent photocopies. These were the notes that he'd requested weeks ago, soon after Sherlock had been admitted, hoping for clues to past psychiatric episodes, or anything about Sherlock's past that might explain this strange introverted boy who had lost all of his own memories and was so difficult to understand. Looking for triggers for the current episode, because there almost always was one, even if Sherlock himself couldn't remember what it was.

The General Practitioner had been difficult, he remembered. He had promised to do a summary and failed, then had refused to let him have copies of the notes, let alone the originals. So how had they ended up here? He checked the envelope, no note, nothing, just his name on the envelope and the words 'Private and Confidential'. Someone wanted him to see them then, but why?

Hesitating slightly, he decided to start from the most recent entries and work his way back. The most recent entry was a copy of the referral letter to the clinic, before this hand written notes detailing the GPs many visits to Sherlock. He flicked to the beginning of the episode.

2nd April 'Remains in bed and uncommunicative'

4th April 'Eating and drinking little according to household staff.' Staff? He had known that Sherlock came from an affluent family, that his father was a peer who sat in the House of Lords, but still. Where were the family when this boy was so unwell?

5th April 'Refuses to communicate, appears very withdrawn, not drinking.'

6th April 'Still not drinking, becoming clinically dehydrated, for referral for admission to Elmhurst. To try and push oral fluids.'

7th April 'No better, admission arranged for today. Patient refuses admission, family in agreement to transfer for assessment and admission. Mental Health section arranged on arrival, sedation given to facilitate transfer.'

So the GP had sat on Sherlock at home for what, a week without getting any psychiatric input? This was unusual. What was more unusual was that he had seen Sherlock nearly every day during that time, including on a - he checked his diary, yes a Saturday, and yet he hadn't referred him before that? A sixteen year old boy who had taken to his bed and was refusing to eat and drink, something was very wrong here.

Flicking back through the notes he found that the GP had seen Sherlock nearly every day for the best part of four weeks prior to his admission. The first recent entry was on March 9th and it made sobering reading.

'Called to see patient by father. Patient has fallen out of a tree which climbing in local woods.' A tree, really? What sixteen year old boy climbed trees? Reading on he felt a coldness like icy water trickle down his spine. Sherlock's injuries from the 'fall' had been extensive. Bruising to the head and the face, a possible fractured cheekbone (not xrayed), concussion, a fractured collarbone (again not xrayed), fractured ribs and multiple bruises, including to the abdomen, back and both legs. Significant trauma in a sixteen year old boy, who from the sound of it had been confused and concussed for several days and yet he had never been taken to hospital. Why on earth not? And the injuries were to both sides of his body. If he had fallen from a tree he would have fallen on one side or the other, injuries would have been front or back, left or right, not both.

With a jolt he realised what he was reading, and flicked back through Sherlock's notes. A bout of croup as a toddler leading to a hospital admission, recurrent bouts of tonsillitis and a tonsillectomy aged five, then from the age of eight on a series of injuries; a broken arm, several broken ribs, a couple of head and facial injuries, all apparently from accidental falls, the majority managed by the GP when they warranted a referral on to a specialist. Then at the age of twelve an episode of sleep-walking, treated with medication not licensed for children, then a consultation for nightmares, proper night terrors with screaming that woke the whole house. Not unlike now, thought James Harrison.

He put the notes down with a thud. He needed to talk to this GP. He could report him to the GMC for this, because what was going on was painfully obvious to him. Multiple injuries with an inconsistent history, delayed presentations to the GP, nightmares, sleep walking and then finally the episode immediately prior to his admission with multiple significant injuries. This was a child who had been beaten, he was sure of it. And the GP was also aware, but had been attempting to cover it up. No wonder he hadn't wanted him to see the notes. But now that he knew what was going on, what on earth did he do with it? Talk to Sherlock was the obvious answer, see if there was anything that he could remember.


	26. Chapter 26

The corridors were in darkness as he walked down them, security lights flicking on as he passed. It was later than he had thought, he must have been reading those notes for a good couple of hours, pouring over them, making notes, jotting down dates and times and injuries, just in case the notes should disappear as quickly as they had arrived.

Sherlock was sitting up in bed, reading and writing notes on Napoleonic history, which he had developed a recent interest in. He found the battle plans strangely fascinating. He looked up surprised as James Harrison knocked on the door and buzzed himself in.

'Hullo,' he said.

'Sherlock I need to talk to you.'

'Obviously.'

'I've just been reading through your medical notes, the ones from your GP, they finally arrived.'

'Oh?'

He looked wary. So he does remember, thought James Harrison, something at least..

'They make interesting reading. Did you know that you allegedly felll out of a tree just before you first got ill?'

'No, did I? I don't remember.'

'You were pretty badly injured by the sound of it. Fractured ribs, broken collar bone, facial injuries, concussion.'

'My collar bone still aches sometimes, is that why - look here.' Sherlock pulled aside his T-shirt to show Dr Harrison his right collarbone, there was a definite lump in the middle of it, sign of a recent fracture.

'Yes, that would be it.'

'Was I in hospital? How bad was it?'

'Pretty bad, but no. Thats what I don't understand. Don't you remember any of this?'

He shook his head. 'Not a thing, sorry.'

'The GP organised a private CT scan for you a week later when you were still getting headaches and were starting to show signs of depression. He was worried you might have a subdural, bleeding round the brain, but the scan was normal.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'So do you think it was related? The head injury and me getting ill I mean, that it triggered it somehow?'

'Not in the way you think, no.' He hesitated. 'Sherlock, the injuries you had don't fit with falling out of a tree.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't understand. My medical notes say I fell out of a tree, so I fell out a tree.'

'No Sherlock, I think that somebody beat you.'

Silence. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Sherlock was pushing on the pencil still grasped in his hand on the paper so hard that the lead snapped, making them both jump.

'You're wrong.'

'Am I? There were other injuries, Sherlock, documented in your notes, spreading back over years. Inconsistent injuries, too many injuries, and injuries that the GP managed when he should have referred you to the hospital.'

'Maybe I was just a clumsy child.'

'And maybe thats exactly what a child who had been abused would say.'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Because its true? What are you afraid of Sherlock?'

'I don't remember!' Sherlock yelled, bringing the night nurse flying into the room a few seconds later. James Harrison held up his hand at her and shook his head, indicating that she should leave them to it.

'Really?'

'Honestly, truly, I don't remember,' Sherlock said, his voice shaking slightly.

'And the nightmares.'

Sherlock buried his head in his hands and slowly shook his head. 'Please don't,' he whispered, 'please.'

James Harrison hesitated, watching Sherlock's shaking shoulders, then remembering a particularly worrying entry in the notes said gently. 'Sherlock, let me look at your back.' Very carefully, he reached a hand across to the bottom of Sherlock's T-shirt, lifting it up slightly. Sherlock batted his hand away.

James Harrison held onto the hand and waited until Sherlock looked at him. 'You can trust me,' he said. 'Just let me see.'

Sherlock turned away from him and allowed him to lift up his T-shirt. He was thin, so thin, every rib and vertebra clearly defined, and criss-crossed across his back, barely visible unless you knew what you were looking form were a number of thin silver scars. The GP notes described an incident with a barbed wire fence, but these scars were too linear, too regular for that. Sighing James Harrison dropped the T-shirt back down.

'Belt?' he asked casually, as Sherlock picked up the pencil and began to draw patterns on the paper in front of him.

'Whip, I think. At least thats what it is in the nightmares.'

'Sherlock I have to tell somebody about this?'

'What, no! You said that I could trust you.'

'And you can, but I have a duty of care to you, to keep you safe.'

'I am safe here, aren't I? He cant get to me here.'

'Who? Your father?'

'I think so. Its his face on the monster in my nightmares, but I can't remember, so how can I be sure?'

'Sherlock the evidence is there. Someone has obviously been beating you, not just recently, for years, and the local doctor has been covering it up. Put that together with the nightmares and your father seems like a fair bet.'

'Fine, so maybe he did beat me. Lots of kids get hit by their parents, but you can't tell anybody, promise me that you won't tell anybody.'

'Why not?'

'Because something awful will happen if you do, please, please.'

Sherlock was sobbing now, papers swept onto the floor, head in his hands. James Harrison put an arm round his skinny shoulders. 'Okay, its okay, calm down.'

The night nurse came into the room again and looked at him questioningly. He indicated swallowing tablets with his spare hand, and she went to get them.

'I'm not going to do anything tonight. I promise. We can talk about this again in the morning, but getting yourself worked up won't help anything.'

'Talk to my brother first, please, talk to Mycroft, he'll explain everything, please...'

'Okay, fine. Here, take these for me.' He took the pot of tablets from the nurse and handed them to Sherlock. Sherlock took them without even checking what they were, and lay down in the bed, still shaking.

'I wish I could understand what you're so afraid of, Sherlock. You're safe here.'

'But thats just it. I'm not. My father can get to me anywhere, you'll see.'

'Thats the paranoia talking.'

'No, its really, really not. Talk to my brother, he'll explain, but please just don't talk to anyone else until you've talked to Mycroft. Promise me.'

'I promise.'


	27. Chapter 27

Leaving Sherlock to the care of the nursing staff, James Harrison went back to his office and reluctantly picked up the phone. He didn't want to ring Sherlock's home number, but there was a separate number for his brother in London. 'He's still at the office,' the disembodied voice on the other end of the phone told him, and gave him a number that was already in the list of contact details for Mycroft Holmes. James Harrison looked after his watch. It was a little after ten in the evening, civil servants obviously worked late.

'Mycroft Holmes,' came the snapped reply a few minutes later. He was obviously disturbing something.

'Mr Holmes, its Dr Harrison from Elmhurst. I'm sorry to disturb you so late. I need to talk to you about your brother.'

'Of course, one moment.' There was the sound of a hand being placed over the receiver, and a murmur of conversation.

'What can I do for you Dr Harrison?'

'I'm not entirely sure. Sherlock asked me to phone you. You see I've been looking through his medical notes.'

'Ah.'

'They're not entirely consistent, to be blunt they are worrying, and they all point in one direction.'

'And what does Sherlock say?'

'He says that he can't remember.'

'And it is best that it remains that way.'

'But he is having nightmares, Mr Holmes, terrible, terrible nightmares, as he did a few years ago. Nightmares that indicate to me that his subconscious is trying to make sense of something terrible that has happened to him.'

'Did he tell you about the nightmare?'

'Yes, and he showed me the scars on his back.'

'Barbed wire,' Mycroft said glibly, 'I think you'll find they were caused by barbed wire.'

'Don't take me for an idiot, Mr Holmes. I know whip marks when I see them.'

There was a long silence.

'What do you hope to gain from this Dr Harrison?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Well the mere fact that you are phoning me and not the police or social services indicates that you have not fully decided what to do. This implies to me that you believe that I may be able to offer you something that will allow you to appease your conscience.'

'What? No! I'm not asking for anything, certainly not money if thats what you are implying. Sherlock asked me to discuss this with you before I went to the police. I am respecting his wishes.'

'I would strongly advise you not to go to the police.'

'I have to go to the police. You know that. I can't keep quiet about this.'

'Why do you have to go to the police?'

'Because its a child protection issue. I have to inform the police, and social services.

'My brother is sixteen years old. He is no longer a child.'

'He was a child when he was being abused.'

'Abuse is a serious allegation, Dr Harrison.'

'What would you prefer to call it?'

'You have no evidence, remember. You have a folder of medical notes, obtained illegally I may add, without the consent of the medical practitioner whose property they are, and I would argue that you have put together two and two and made five. You have a teenager on a mental health section with known psychosis, documented to be suffering from delusions and hallucinations, who has no direct memory of events. Circumstantial evidence, nothing more.'

'What are you saying?'

'I am saying, Dr Harrison that this is not a child protection issue, because my brother is no longer a child, and he does not need protecting as he is already in a place of safety. For what it is worth, and I say this without confirming your suspicions in any way shape or form, you have my absolute assurance that I would not allow my brother to return to a house in which my father was resident again. I am, in essence, guaranteeing his safety after his discharge from your institution.'

'That brings us to the matter of past crimes which may or may not have occurred. Consider for a moment if you will, what the likely outcome would be in a court of law given the lack of evidence, the lack of witnesses, because I can assure you that there will be none, and a raft of expert witnesses which my father I assure you will be able to provide, all stating that Sherlock's injuries were the result of an over adventurous childhood, nothing more. Add to that a psychotic, delusional teenager, who has no memory of events, and who is I'm sure you will agree is extremely suggestible at present, and how well do you think that your reputation would come out of any allegation and subsequent court case.

James Harrison was silent. He had been out maneuvered and he didn't like it.

'At best you would look like a fool, jumping at shadows,' Mycroft continued, 'at worst you could find yourself the subject of a GMC disciplinary for implanting false memories in a suggestible patient.'

'So you are saying that I should do nothing?'

'I am saying that you should respect my brother's wishes on this subject, and allow me to come and talk to him, and you, tomorrow. Until then I would strongly suggest that you keep your suspicions to yourself.'

Further discussion seemed pointless. Putting down the phone, James Harrison sat and contemplated his options. Mycroft was entirely correct, he had no hard evidence, just a collection of uncomfortable facts and the voice of experience which told him that he was entirely correct in his conclusions.


	28. Chapter 28

James Harrison had no recollection of driving home. Caught up in his thoughts he blinked when he realised that he was sitting in his car on the gravel drive outside his house. The opening of the front door jolted him out of his thoughts, and then his wife was there, smiling at him through the car window smiling. 'Are you coming in, or are you going to stay there all night?' she mouthed through the window.

'Bad day?' she asked as he came in and sat down at the kitchen table. 'I kept food for you if you want it.'

He shook his head. 'Maybe later. Girls in bed?''

'Yes, hours ago. Its half ten, James. What happened?'

And so he told her. All of it. He had mentioned Sherlock to her before, no names of course, because even though his wife was a doctor too, confidentiality was still important, but she was aware of the patient who had taken up so much of his time and concern in the last few months. Now he told her about the medical notes, and of his suspicions about abuse. She sat silently until he had finished, then asked quietly, 'Have you asked him about it.'

'Yes. He says that he can't remember, but in his nightmares he is being chased, and whipped and beaten. It fits, Emma, more than anything else. Don't you think?'

'I think that it fits exactly, but you've got no proof.'

'Isn't suspicion enough to act. To get it investigated?'

'If it was a child under sixteen, yes. For a sixteen year old, the law is much more difficult, you know this. If he doesn't want to press charges then there isn't a lot the police can do. Social services I can tell you from experience probably won't be interested as long as he is safe. You can argue that he's a vulnerable adult, or nearly adult, but then he's in a place of safety already.'

'So what do I do - what would you do?'

'Honestly? I would talk to the Medical Defence people, and unless they say otherwise talk to him about it when he's better, Help him work through what has happened sure, if it has happened, see if he recovers any more memories. But do you really think that he'll give evidence against his own father?'

'Probably not, although I get the feeling there's no love lost there. Do you know his father hasn't even been to see him? Not since he was first admitted - he came a couple of times in the first few weeks, but since then he's stayed away. There's a brother who visits from time to time; older, mid twenties maybe but thats it, nobody else.'

'No mother?'

'Mother died six months ago, car crash, I think thats part of the problem.'

'Poor kid. Not had much luck, has he.'

'Thats one way of putting it. He's doing okay though, getting there. His brother has promised me that he'll make sure he's safe when he's discharged.'

'Hang on, you talked to his brother?'

James screwed up his face, realising what he'd just said. 'Um, yes. I did. I had to, Emma. I needed to know what was going on.'

'And did he tell you?'

'Not in so many words, but he didn't deny it.'

'What did he say?'

'Interestingly enough, almost exactly what you've just said. He also said something more worrying, that his father would go to great lengths to avoid a scandal, and there was a degree of threat implied against me too.'

'Seriously? What is his father, mafia or something?' Emma was laughing now despite everything.

'In confidence? He's a peer, Emma. He sits in the House of Lords, among other things. if I said his name then you'd know it.'

'Oh, God. James what have you got yourself into?'

'I have got no idea.'

'Will the brother tell him that you know?'

'Difficult to say. I suspect that it could go either way.'

'You do realise that they could allege slander, or similar, couldn't they? If there's no evidence?'

'Not unless I go to the press. Defamation of character, possibly, but they don't want anyone to know about this. Of course - Gemma Haynes!'

'What?'

'The psychologist, the one who was sacked. She was trying to get Sherlock to tell her what had happened with his father. She knew, Emma, or she suspected, but why?'

'Press, maybe? Or - no, this is getting crazy. You've got me onto conspiracy theories now.'

She got up, switched the kettle on, then changing her mind pulled a bottle of wine out of the rack and poured them both a glass.

'Go on, this whole thing can't get any crazier. Tell me your conspiracy theories.'

'Well this psychologist. if she really was trying to get Sherlock - you do realise that you've told me his name now, and its not exactly a common one - if she was trying to get him to talk, what was she going to do with the information?'

'Sell it, I presume. She wasn't a journalist, she was definitely a bona fide psychologist, I checked her references myself. But thinking about it she arrived two weeks about Sherlock - what, you seriously think that she could have been sent to get information out of him? Now thats a conspiracy theory and a half.'

'I hadn't actually got that far, that one is all yours. So hang on, you're saying that someone could have arranged for her to come to the hospital because Sherlock was there?'

'Its possible. Powerful men have powerful enemies, Emma. I doubt that we'll ever know.'

'I don't like it James. I'm starting to wonder how you can come out of this intact.'

'I know. Would make a great book wouldn't it? But at the bottom of it all, Emma, there's a scared sixteen year old boy who needs my help, and I think thats what I have to hold onto.'

'I agree. So at the end of the day, you have to do whats right for him, don't you, not what your conscience dictates. Talk to Neil Simmonds about it by all means, but if all you have is a hunch and Sherlock himself doesn't have any clear memories then I truly don't think that you have a duty to report.'

'What about the scars on his back? They're evidence.'

'But they're old you say - how old, several years?'

'I would say so.'

'Then its evidence of previous abuse, not necessarily ongoing abuse, and its up to him to decide what he wants to do about that.'

'He wants to keep it quiet.'

'Then you probably have your answer.'

Round and round they went, because despite everything James Harrison's conscience was dictating that this should be reported - to someone, and Emma's logical arguments about what he hoped to achieve by it didn't really come into it. Finally she came out with the clincher.

'Has it occurred to you that you could make it worse? What if you do report it and destroy whatever relationship is left between this boy and his father. How would you feel then?'

Horrible, was the answer, but then there was no good outcome here. Eventually, much too late for a school night he gave up and they went to bed where he slept badly.


	29. Chapter 29

At handover the next morning he was distracted. The nurses, thankfully had avoided mentioning his late night visit to Sherlock, saying only that Sherlock had been upset in the evening and had required additional sedation. The general consensus though was that things were going well, and if they continued this way then they could start planning for discharge in the next few weeks. Talk then moved on to other, more challenging patients.

Walking to his office to check his mail before his 9am appointment, his secretary handed him a message. The director wanted to meet him in his office at 9.30.

'I've got a patient,' he told his secretary. 'Can't he make another time.'

'I've rearranged them for this afternoon,' she told him, 'he said that it was important.'

Walking into Dr Simmonds office half an hour later, he was surprised to see another man sitting in the winged armchair opposite the desk. A spare chair stood waiting for him to occupy it .

'Ah James.' Dr Simmonds said. 'I don't think that you've met Viscount Holmes, Sherlock's father.'

The words of Dorothy Parker came to mind, 'What fresh hell is this.' An interesting choice under the circumstances. Maybe his subconscious was trying to tell him something.

The two men shook hands, and James Harrison tried not to let his disconcertion show on his face, as he tried to work out what was going on. Was this a chance visit? A father come to see his son, or had Mycroft Holmes told him about their conversation of the previous evening, and was that the reason for his visit. Only time would tell.

'I've been filling Viscount Holmes in on Sherlock's progress,' Dr Simmonds was saying. 'He's been very concerned about him.' But not concerned enough to visit, James Harrison couldn't help thinking.

'Dr Harrison,' Viscount Holmes cut in, obviously not a man who had time for pleasantries. 'I'll cut to the chase. My son, Mycroft has informed me that you have certain concerns about incidents that you have uncovered in Sherlock's medical records, records incidentally which our local GP had no knowledge were in your possession. How did you gain access to them, out of interest?'

'They were delivered to me by courier, yesterday afternoon.' James Harrison said calmly, 'I have to confess that I was surprised to see the originals. A summary, or photocopies are more usual, but I had requested them weeks ago, on Sherlock's initial admission, so I assumed that the GP had sent them.'

'It would appear not. Do you still have the packaging that they came in?'

'No, it went in the bin and I imagine would have been emptied by the cleaner this morning.

'We'll look into it,' Dr Simmonds said.

'Dr Harrison I understand that you are concerned that Sherlock has had in his life too many, and inconsistent injuries for them to have been received accidentally. You have therefore, not unreasonably surmised that someone must have inflicted them on him. Did you ever consider that there was a third explanation, namely that he inflicted them on himself?'

'On himself? What are you saying?'

'I am saying, Dr Harrison that my youngest son has what can most charitably be termed an overactive imagination among his other more unusual personality traits. My late wife did nothing to discourage him from this. From the time that he was at preparatory school he fabricated injury, and implied to anyone who would listen that I was the perpetrator. Thankfully the majority of the time this was recognised as what it was. There was an unfortunate incident a few years ago when he told a teacher at his preparatory school that I had whipped him, and the teacher duly reported it to social services. When investigated it became clear that Sherlock had in fact inflicted the injuries himself, with the aid of a block of wood with nails inserted into it at semi-regular intervals. He had, it would seem, attached this to the wall and scraped it down his back to produce injuries which would look like lash marks. I imagine that he still has the scars.'

'He does,' James Harrison said quietly, trying to work out who to believe.

'Statements were taken from household staff at the time, and from my eldest son, Mycroft, all attesting to Sherlock's behavior, including eye-witness accounts from some of the staff who had seen Sherlock inflict these injuries on himself. The most dramatic of these incidents was the one leading up to his admission when a groundsman saw him throw himself out of a tree, then climb back up and throw himself out again to ensure that the job was done properly. I have a statement about that also.' Viscount Holmes handed the document wallet of papers to James Harrison, whose head was now going round in circles. What was truth and what was fabrication he now had no idea.

'I apologise, Dr Harrison. I should have realised that this was information that you would need, but I never imagined that Sherlock would continue his attempts at deception in here.'

'He didn't' James Harrison said, resisting the temptation to read the papers here and now. 'He remembers very little of events prior to his admission. But he has been having nightmares.'

'Nightmares about me?'

'Not exactly. Viscount Holmes, I am sorry, but I can't discuss the details of Sherlock's therapy sessions with you without his consent.'

'But I am his father. Surely I have a right to know?'

'Sherlock is sixteen years old, and is entitled to make his own decisions about that.'

'Then perhaps it is best that I talk to my son about it directly.

'I'm not sure thats such a good idea.'

'Why? Because his nightmares _are_ about me?' James Harrison could see where Sherlock got his intelligent from, and realised that Viscount Holmes was a formidable opponent. 'Surely he has a right to make up his own mind about whether he wants to see me?'

'Of course,' Dr Simmonds was saying smoothly. 'Is there anything else that we need to discuss?'

'I would just make sure that you are clear, Dr Harrison,' Viscount Holmes said, 'that what Sherlock says or believes to have happened, and what actually happened have not infrequently in the past been very different. I have been reluctant to term these delusions or paranoia in the past, but given his current illness I am beginning to wonder if this may not have been the case. Some of his fabricated injury occurred in an effort to persuade me to let him go and stay with her mother during her prolonged visits to the South of France, and some of his more colourful accusations against me seem to have been related to this wish. Now I would appreciate it if you could take me to see my son.'


	30. Chapter 30

In retrospect, James Harrison wished that he had insisted on going ahead to see Sherlock, to warn him of his father's visit, but instead it was Dr Simmonds who went ahead, knocked on the door and announced to Sherlock that he had a visitor.

In the split second as Dr Simmonds stood back to let Viscount Holmes walk through the door first, Dr Harrison realised that Sherlock would have been expecting to see his brother, not his father. When his father walked through the door, Sherlock, who had been sitting on the bed reading turned a waxy shade of grey, and Dr Harrison knew at that moment that whatever the truth of the matter, Sherlock believed that the abuse had been real.

Then to his surprise both he and the nurse were duly dismissed, and the door shut behind Viscount Holmes and Dr Simmonds. What had transpired in that room he only discovered from a further meeting with Dr Simmonds that afternoon; Sherlock himself would never speak of it.

Sherlock's father stayed for a grand total of twelve minutes, according to the nursing staff, and when he left they found Sherlock lying on the bed, staring at the wall, pale even for him, and silent, entirely silent, communicating only by nodding and shaking his head.

Concerned they had called James Harrison to see him, but he could get nothing out of the boy either, and eventually he had instructed the nursing staff to give him sedation and to let him sleep.

Meeting with Dr Simmonds later that afternoon, the message was clear. Sherlock was to be viewed as being delusional about the alleged abuse at the hands of his father. Dr Simmonds believed that Gemma Haynes had deliberated implanted false memories into Sherlock's already confused brain from her first session with him, when he was still muddled from the ECT, and had then compounded this in future sessions. She had, he believed, been deliberately trying to get Sherlock to come up with false allegations against his father, which she then intended to sell to the press in an attempt to discredit him. On whose orders she had been carrying this out, they had yet to discover, but Viscount Holmes apparently had people on the case. Whether police, a private detective or secret service personnel was not disclosed.

'But if this is true we should report her to the College,' James Harrison said, 'we can't risk her doing this to someone else.'

Dr Simmonds shook his head. 'Believe me, she is well aware of the gravity of her actions, and Viscount Holmes wants Sherlock's name kept out of this. We can't report it without launching a full case enquiry and that is the last thing that this family needs.'

Alarm bells rang in James Harrison's head. A father who would rather risk another patient being harmed than risk a scandal, whose own public image was worth more than his son's mental health possibly? Now there was food for thought.

'So what you' are saying, ' James Harrison said slowly 'is that Sherlock previously fabricated injury to make it look as if he was being abused by his father, leading up to him throwing himself out of a tree which resulted in severe injuries and somehow, for whatever reason, culminated in his admission here.'

'Precisely.'

'And that Gemma Haynes actions have led him to turn his fabricated stories of abuse into false memories of actual abuse.'

'Yes, although it appears that he may have been delusional about events prior to the acute episode. This means that his illness may have been going on for years, and would point more to emerging schizophrenia with associated depression than to psychotic depression as we originally thought.'

'Unless they weren't delusions.'

'I'm sorry?'

'You heard me. Unless Sherlock's memories, and I have to say he has never reflected any such memories back to me, only details from his nightmares, unless they weren't delusions. Neil, what if the abuse did in fact happen. Could you just consider for a moment that we could be getting this terribly, terribly wrong? Because the nightmares, Sherlock's illness, his medical notes, the scars on his back all of it could be explained by concealed abuse.'

There was a long silence in which the two men tried to outstare each other.

'I think that possibly you are getting too close to this boy, James,' Dr Simmonds said finally. 'You are buying into his delusions when you need to be holding them up to him as exactly what they are. Perhaps its time for him to work with a different therapist.'

'I'm just raising it as a possibility.'

'We have social work reports, reports from staff in the house, family friends and even Sherlock's own brother all clearly stating that they witnessed Sherlock fabricating injuries and that no abuse occurred. How do you explain those?'

James Harrison was silent, but the phrase 'money talks' came strongly into his mind, or even the possibility that the reports could themselves be fabricated. But one thing was horribly clear to him. Neil Simmonds had picked his side and was not to be swayed. His best option was to pretend to believe the truth as it was being presented to him, continue working with Sherlock and hope that eventually his memories would return enough to confirm events one way or the other.


	31. Chapter 31

His opportunity to talk to Sherlock came the next day. He buzzed himself into the room to find Sherlock lying on his bed, fully dressed, staring out of the window.

'I don't want to talk about it,' he said, still with his back to the room, as James Harrison sat down on the chair by the bed.

'Don't want to talk about what?'

'I don't want to talk about my father.'

'I didn't say anything about your father.'

'No, but you were going to.'

'Was I ? Why do you think that.'

Sherlock rolled over and gave him an icy stare, 'I may be delusional, mad and drugged up to my eyeballs, but I'm not stupid.'

'No, you're not. Now why don't you sit up and talk to me?'

'I told you. I don't want to talk about it.'

'And you don't have to. We can talk about anything that you want.'

'How about the fact that you told my father about my nightmares and what we'd discussed when you told me that it was confidential, can we talk about that?'

Anger, now this was interesting.

'Sherlock, I didn't. I told him that you had been having nightmares, but I mentioned none of the content of the nightmares to him. I told you, therapy sessions are confidential.'

'Then who did tell him? Because he knew. He knew all of it.'

'I don't know. Gemma Haynes could have done, or could have told someone else who told him, or he could have assumed that they were about him and left you to confirm it.'

'Why would Gemma Haynes have talked to my father?'

'She may well have talked to someone else and that information could then subsequently have been passed onto him. Sherlock, did Gemma say things to you, early on in your sessions, things that implied that your father had treated you badly? I know about the nightmare comments, I mean before that.'

'I don't know do I? I can't remember any of my early sessions with her because of the ECT. Thats what I'm so frustrated about.'

'Sherlock, all the evidence is that Gemma implanted false memories in your head when you were still very confused and susceptible after the ECT. There is no evidence of any abuse by your father.'

'But you still think that it happened,' Sherlock said flatly.

James Harrison looked nervously at the door. 'I should say no, that it was all a delusion but the honest truth is that I just don't know. Its possible, yes, but I would say that the best thing that you can do is to try not to think about it for now, and to wait and see what memories come back in time. Do you remember anything?'

'No, nothing, only the nightmares.'

'Which could after all just be nightmares.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was, Dr Harrison realised, trying very hard not to cry. 'I don't want to be like this again, he whispered. I'm done with conspiracy theories. It was all getting so much better, and now I don't know what's real all over again.'

Dr Harrison was suddenly alert, 'Voices?' he asked calmly.

'Just my fathers, repeating the things that he said to me yesterday, that I've let down the family, that I'm a disappointment to him, that I need to forget about these ridiculous lies, and other things, worse things, things that I don't think that he said to me, but that my brain is inventing. Over and over.'

'The other things, the first things that you said, about being a disappointment to him, did he really say that to you?'

'Yes, and not for the first time, I don't think. I hate him,' he whispered, 'is that wrong?'

'Its understandable.'

'Thats not what I asked.'

'I know, but I'm not here to tell you whats right and wrong, Sherlock, you know that. What you feel is what you feel, and that is never wrong.'

Sherlock was silent for a long while, eyes shut, swallowing hard to stop himself from crying.

'What is it?' James Harrison asked him gently, 'Whats upsetting you?'

'What if my fathers right? What if I did actually do all of those things. What does that make me - what kind of person could do that?'

A sociopath could, James Harrison though, but he didn't believe that Sherlock was a sociopath. He cared far too much about what people thought, and he lacked cognitive empathy in a way that a sociopath wouldn't. He didn't manipulate people from what he had seen, and more importantly he missed out on non-verbal cues, something that the nurses had commented on. He often didn't realise that they were joking unless they told him. In short, James Harrison was convinced that he wasn't a sociopath, but rather that he was on the autistic spectrum. How nobody else had realised this until he reached the age of sixteen was another question. Probably because he functioned so well despite it. Until now.

'The sort of person that you are not,' he said, deciding that now was not the time to go into it. 'Sherlock I have spent hours and hours talking to you over the last few weeks. I probably know the inside of your head better than anyone, and I don't believe that you have it in you to behave in the way that your father describes. Which leaves us with two possibilities. Either you have changed your personality drastically during your illness, or those things that your father described never happened.'

'He says that they did. That I made all of this up.'

'He said that to you when he came to see you yesterday, or he's saying it now in your head?'

'Both.'

'Can you cope with it?'

'No, I just want to go to sleep and never wake up.'

'Can you see it getting better?

'No.'

'Then I think we need to up your medication.'

'Again? But I'm just starting to be able to function on the current lot.'

'But its not working, is it?'

'It was until my father came along.'

And then he did start to cry, silently, turning away to hide his tears in the pillow, and James Harrison called in Clare, and asked her to give him yet more sedation. What kind of father, he wondered angrily as he left the room, does that to his son when he is already unwell. What kind of father tells a depressed teenager that he is a disappointment to him and has let down the family? The same kind of father who would beat his son for the same reasons? Very possibly. But Emma was right, he had no proof, and Viscount Holmes was not a man to be taken on lightly. Better to do what he could for Sherlock and leave it at that.


	32. Chapter 32

Neil Simmonds, however, had no intention of letting it leave him at that. At team meeting the next day, they discussed Sherlock's case. Dr Harrison deliberately left out some of the more sensitive details of his discussion with Sherlock, but did tell the group that he was hearing voices again, exclusively his fathers voice, and that he appeared more depressed since his fathers visit. He was spending extended periods of time lying on his bed, talking little and eating and drinking only with encouragement.

'He's relapsing,' Neil Simmonds said crisply, 'the ECT is wearing off, I told you that that he should have had a longer course. I think that we should give him some more.'

James Harrison tried to conceal his horror at this idea. Neil Simmonds was a big advocate of ECT, while James Harrison believed in it only as a last resort, preferring the softer therapeutic options of medication and psychotherapy. Inducing fits in a patient in an attempt to reset their brain function and biochemistry still seemed to him like a fairly barbaric treatment while other options existed.

'Sherlock is firmly against it,' he said, 'and given the extent of the memory problems that he had last time, I have to say that I entirely agree with him. We've increased his medications, added in another antipsychotic, lets see how he goes on that.'

'Two weeks, James, and if there's no improvement then he gets more ECT. I got his father to sign the consent form for a second course while he was here.'

Did he? That was interesting, and the more that he thought about it the more interesting it got. Why would he have done that? At that stage Sherlock had been getting better, so much better that they had been talking about discharge planning. Why would Neil then consent him for a second round of ECT? There was one clear reason, which didn't bear thinking about. To get rid of the memories of the abuse, false or not.

'More conspiracy theories?' Emma said with a smile when he talked to her about it that evening. 'Sometimes I think that you're catching your patients paranoia, James. It could have been a just in case thing, surely. You said yourself that his father is often out of the country. Perhaps Neil Simmonds just took the opportunity to get the form signed while Sherlock's father was there. It doesn't have to be a conspiracy. By the way a letter came from you - about the Edinburgh job, looking at the postmark.'

It was about the job; his dream job, the teaching post at Edinburgh Medical School, with a part-time Consultant job thrown in, and the opportunity for research. Interviews were the following week, and he was going to do everything that he could to secure it.

James Harrison was far too busy for the next week to worry much about Sherlock, who was becoming increasingly withdrawn. The nurses reported that he talked to them little, even Sarah and Clare who he usually had such a good rapport with.

'What worries me,' Sarah said at report on Monday, 'is that this feels horribly like the way he was when he came in; polite, but distracted, spending more time listening to the voices in his head then trying to connect with the outside world. If we give him enough haloperidol to get rid of the voices then he just sleeps all day, which is his preferred option anyway. He did that on Saturday. Sunday we managed him to persuade him to go outside for an hour with Matt, but that was about as good as it got.

'Did he open up to you at all Matt? Any clues?' James Harrison asked.

'He asked me to keep most of what he said confidential, but his head is in a hell of a mess since he saw his father, thats all that I'm going to say. He doesn't know which way is up or who to believe. I'd say he's getting more paranoid by the day, and as he gets more paranoid he gets more depressed.'

'Which fits in with the schizophrenia theory,' Neil Simmonds said, but Matt, daringly shook his head.

'I don't think that he's schizophrenic,' he said. 'I don't think that he's depressed because of the paranoia, don't misinterpret me, I still think that his symptoms fit better with psychotic depression. I think that seeing his father has just made him take twenty step backwards thats all.'

There was a deadly silence in the room, nobody ever contradicted Neil Simmonds.

'I didn't realised you'd become a psychiatrist, Matt,' Neil Simmonds said smoothly, 'so do you have any theories as to why this happened?'

'I would imagine because his father had an awful lot to do with why he got ill in the first place.'

You could have heard a pin drop. Then James Harrison broke it by clearing his throat and moving onto the next patient after a brief discussion about Sherlock's medication.


	33. Chapter 33

The interview went well, very well in fact, and by that evening, sitting dazed in the taxi on the way to the airport to catch the plane home, James was able to tell Emma that they were moving to Edinburgh.

'When?' she asked.

'Ah, well there's the catch. They want me to start as soon as possible. The last chap left rather suddenly and the post is vacant. Its all a bit crazy, but I'm going to talk to Neil Simmonds about it tomorrow, see if I can use my annual leave to get there in the next few weeks, a month at the outside. I can come back for the weekends to start with, give you a chance to put the house on the market and find a new school for the girls, and then you can join me when you can.

Neil Simmonds was surprisingly amenable to the idea. Suspiciously amenable, James Harrison thought to start with, and then remembered Emma's comments about conspiracy theories. He would, it appeared, be starting work at Edinburgh in a little over two weeks.

Sherlock met the news with little reaction, doped out again on the new and increased medication, he seemed to react to little these days, and therapy sessions had degenerated into long silences and little information. The voices were quieter one day, louder the next, and Matt had become the only people that he would have anything resembling a conversation with, and that only under the understanding that Matt kept all of his comments strictly to himself.

'But you would tell me if he said anything worrying,' James Harrison checked with him one day, not long before he was due to leave.

'He's not going to do anything drastic, well at least if he is, he hasn't told me about it. He's taking his medication and yet his conspiracy theories are still growing by the day. Do you want to know anything else?'

'No, that about covers it. Are his conspiracy theories about his father?'

'Can't tell you,' Matt said, nodding vigorously.

'And do you believe them?'

'I think that some of them are possible, yes.'

'Do you tell him that?'

'I try to stay non committal and let him talk,' Matt said.

'Which is why you will make such a good clinical psychologist,' James Harrison said with a grin. 'Matt, when you apply for the course, I hope that you'll put me down as a reference, and let me know if I can pull any strings for you.'

'I will, thanks,' Matt said surprised. 'So all set for Edinburgh?'

'Yes, only a few days to go. Matt - you will look out for Sherlock, wont you? I worry about that one, and I don't think that everything is as it seems.'

'I don't either, Matt said grimly, 'but yes of course I will.'

The following day James Harrison handed over Sherlock's case to Caitlin Thomas, one of the senior registrars, with strict instructions that unless he became absolutely catatonic, he was not to have any more ECT, and she should do everything in her power to prevent it. His understanding was that the locum consultant, who was starting on Monday would be supervising her, and he had written copious amounts in Sherlock's notes detailing his treatment plan and the need to avoid ECT if at all possible.

Caitlin's first session with Sherlock was on Thursday, James Harrison's final day, and she reported back to the team meeting on Friday. He was slowly improving on the new medication, but was still very withdrawn. He was eating with encouragement, and his voices were getting quieter. He was not keen, however to engage in therapy. In fact he had flat blank refused to talk to Caitlin, and spent the majority of the session lying with his eyes closed, ignoring her.

'ECT Monday,' Neil Simmonds said briskly.

'What, why?' Caitlin asked, remembering James Harrison's conversation with her. 'He's getting better.'

'But not quickly enough. It worked before and it will work again'

'He's nowhere near as bad as he was before,' Sarah said, trying to keep her voice level, 'besides he's only been on the new medication a couple of weeks, it hasn't reached its full effect yet.'

'He's been here for what nine weeks? Long enough. He needs more ECT.'

'Give him until after the weekend,' Sarah pleaded. 'See how he is then.'

'Very well we'll review Monday, but if he's no better by then, and I include properly engaging with Caitlin, then we're listing him for ECT Wednesday.'


	34. Chapter 34

As James Harrison packed the last of his things ready to travel up to Edinburgh the following day, he had a vague feeling of unease. Spider sense, Emma called it. It was the same thing that told him when he was making a bad decision about a patient. Much as he hated to admit it, young Sherlock Holmes had got to him in a way that few other patients had, partly admittedly because he hated mysteries and he still hadn't worked out the truth behind this one. Whatever it was, he suspected that it certainly wasn't the one being proposed by Viscount Holmes.

Leafing through the box of odd papers that he had brought back from his office when he cleared out his desk he found the list of staff contact numbers, and sat at his desk, drumming his fingers, trying to work out who to call. He considered Caitlin, but as a trainee her position was too vulnerable, and while she had the makings of an excellent psychiatrist, he wasn't sure that she had the strength of resolve yet for what he was proposing. His other consultant colleagues wouldn't be keen to rock the boat, so who did that leave? Nursing staff? Their positions were precarious too. Assistants? He tapped his pen next to Matt's name for a good two minutes before making his decision, then quickly dialed Matt's number before he could change his mind.

'Matt? James Harrison, have you got a minute?'

'Sure, whats up?'

'I need to talk to you about Sherlock.'

'I didn't think that he was your patient any more. Still worrying about him?'

'Thats part of it. Matt, there's something thats been bothering me. Something that I haven't talked to anyone else in the team about, because I was asked not to by Neil Simmonds and Sherlock's family, but now that I'm not looking after him any more, I think that its important that at least one person there knows about it, just in case -' he broke off.

'Just in case its the truth?' Matt asked.

A less good psychiatrist would have missed the nuances in Matt's tone. Fortunately James Harrison was an extremely good psychiatrist.

'You think its true, don't you, the stories of abuse. What makes you so sure?'

'Takes one to know one,' Matt said calmly.

'Ah. I didn't know, I'm sorry.'

'No its fine, well its not fine, but its done, finished. It was a long time ago and I've gone through a shed load of therapy to make it as close to okay as its going to get. But he's got that look, James, that haunted look, and the distrust, and the fear. He is either the best actor that I have ever met, or it was real.'

'Have you told him that?'

'No, because his family for whatever reason want him to believe that it was a delusion, and I'm not so naive to think that the truth is always the right think to believe. Sometimes I wish that someone could take away my memories too. Would make things a fuck of a lot easier.'

'But if not knowing is making his paranoia worse, then it would better for him to know the truth.'

'Why are you so sure that it is the truth?'

'Because I saw his medical notes from the GP, and I don't believe that any child could have done that to themselves. Not Sherlock, certainly. To have done that, and concealed it, to have lied about it, to have manipulated people to that extent would take a psychopath, or a sociopath, and I don't believe that Sherlock is either. Have you ever seen him attempt to manipulate anyone at the hospital?'

'No, never. He can be difficult sometimes, stubborn, argumentative, but manipulative, no, never. He doesn't have it in him.'

'Exactly, and he's not able to lie. He avoids subjects rather than lying about them.'

There was a long pause, then finally James Harrison asked, 'Matt, does Sherlock's paranoia revolve around his father?'

'I can't tell you that, you know that.'

'Because he's asked you not to?'

'Yes.'

'Then I'm going to have to ask you to take a leap of faith, and trust me on this. I am no longer Sherlock's doctor, and what you say will have no impact on his clinical care. But if you can tell me whats going on in that complicated head of his then I may just be able to help you to help him, nothing more. Because the honest truth is this. If the abuse did occur, as we both think that it did, and if Sherlock's father is prepared to allow his son to become progressively more depressed and paranoid by feeding him a pack of lies in order to protect his own reputation, then what else would he be prepared to do to prevent the truth from getting out?'

'What are you saying?'

'I am saying that I am worried for Sherlock. Just think for a moment, Matt. What would you do if you were in Viscount Holmes' position? If you were an unscrupulous man who would do anything to prevent a scandal and it looked as if your youngest son might be remembering events that would potentially ruin you, what would you do?'

'I would make sure that those memories were destroyed, or rather I would get someone else to destroy them for me.'

'Precisely. And that is why I would find it extremely concerning were Neil Simmonds to take over Sherlock's care.'

'He's already talking about more ECT,' Matt said quietly, 'but then he always was an advocate. Sarah and I have both said that we think its the wrong thing to do, and he's going to give it a few more days, but it jarred somehow. Its too soon to be thinking about that, and he's nowhere near as bad as he was before. Plus it affected him so horribly last time, it just seems like the wrong thing to do.'

'My wife thinks that I've caught my patients' paranoia,' James Harrison said, 'good to know that I'm not alone.'

'So what do I do?'

'Do what you can to get him better enough to avoid ECT.'

'Which is what and how?'

James Harrison hesitated. 'Matt isn't part of Sherlock's problem that he can't make sense of it all? That all the possibilities are going round and round in his head, because he doesn't know whats real and what isn't?'

'Yeah, thats exactly it.'

'Then I would tell him a story. A story that could be real and could be imagination. A story about a boy who was beaten regularly by his father from the age of eight, who tried to tell a teacher at school about it once, and got another beating for his trouble, who wasn't believed and gave up trying. A child who withdrew into himself because he learnt not to trust people. His brother knew, the local GP knew, neither of them could or would help. A story about a boy who is terrified of his father for good reason, whose memories can only come out in dreams, who would rather stay here than go home because of those memories. A boy who was beaten so badly while he was still grieving for his mothers death that he gave up on life, stopped eating and drinking and ended up alone and confused in a psychiatric hospital.'

They were both silent for a long time. 'I could make it worse,' Matt said finally.

'Its just a story, Matt. Tell it to him and see how it sits. If its true, then he will know. Tell him to use his instincts, and tell him that I'm sorry that I didn't have the balls to tell it to him myself.'

'Do you know, I might just do that. But one thing I don't understand. If its true, as we both think that it is, then why did his mother not do anything about it?'

'Because I think that she was terrified of her husband too.'


	35. Chapter 35

Saturday morning found Matt in Sherlock's room bright and early. Sherlock looked dreadful he thought. Paler than ever and with large dark circles under his eyes.

'Did you sleep at all?' he asked.

'Some. Nightmares,' Sherlock said briefly. That had been the pattern since his fathers visit. The less he talked about his father, the worse the nightmares. He didn't talk about the details of the nightmares, but Matt knew that his father was in them all the same. Sherlock looked haunted in the traditional sense, he thought, but by memories rather than ghosts.

'Did they give you a sleeping tablet?'

'Yes, but sometimes that make it worse. I still get the nightmares, but I can't wake myself up from them. I'm trapped.'

'Sherlock are the voices and the dream the same?'

'They share a common theme, yes.'

Of course they did. 'Come for a walk with me,' Matt said.'Its a beautiful day outside.'

Sherlock shook his head, 'Too tired. I just want to stay here,'

'Please, Sherlock. I need to talk to you about something and its better done outside.'

Ten minutes later they were sitting on their usual bench under the massive horse chestnut tree at the far end of the grounds. The only noise was the sound of bird song, and the occasional car on the road some distance away.

'I want to tell you a story,' Matt said. 'It might be real, and it might not be, thats for you to decide, but its a story that is worth hearing, none the less.'

By the time that he had finished, Sherlock had his head buried in his hands and was wiping away tears, trying to prevent Matt from seeing. Silently Matt handed him a tissue from his pocket. 'For what its worth,' he said. 'I think that its true, and James Harrison thinks that its true. It was him who asked me to tell you the story; but the only one who really knows is you. How does it feel? Does it feel like paranoia, or does it feel like the truth.'

'Truth,' mumbled Sherlock. Wiping his eyes he sat up and looked at Matt. 'How did you know?'

'Because I've seen that look before, Sherlock. That haunted look that goes with distrust and not knowing where the next blow is going to come from. Because, as I've told you before. You remind me of me, in a uncomfortable number of ways.'

'Oh.'

'Yes, oh. I also think that its very telling that the more you try to block it out and deny it, the worse the voices and the nightmares become. Is that whats in your nightmares?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, they're fairly technicolour these days, surround sound and everything. Thats why I don't like sleeping in the dark. Its better in the day, I'm more likely to get woken up by somebody, but at night it feels as if it can be hours before someone comes, before I can wake up.'

'Try writing it down,' Matt said, 'I haven't seen you writing in that box file of yours for a while.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'It was too disjointed, and as I told you, I'm done with conspiracy theories.'

'But this isn't a conspiracy theory, is it? Here's what I would suggest. Write it down, read it, see if it still feels real. '

'But I still cant tell anybody, can I? My father,' Sherlock shuddered at the thought, 'Matt he was awful, when he came, that was real. I think that he really hates me. All that crap about being disappointed in me and letting down the family, as if it was my fault, as if I had chosen this.'

'You can talk to me about it, but I would still stick to the not being able to remember story with everyone else. Safer that way.'

They stayed out there talking until the sun was high overhead, and the garden filled with other residents. Eventually Clare came out to find them for lunch. 'You look better,' she observed looking at Sherlock, 'less exhausted than this morning at any rate.'

Sherlock just nodded, and let her lead him inside for lunch.

Later that afternoon he opened his bedside locker and took out the box file.

'Going to do some writing?' Clare asked. 'Haven't seen you do that for while.' She was in the room a suspicious amount of the time at the moment, all of the nurses were. What did they honestly think that he was going to do? He knew the answer to that. Talk, they wanted him to talk, but he couldn't.

'Was going to, but I need a pencil. Where's it gone?'

'I'll get you one,' Clare said, disappearing out of the room.

'Did you confiscate my pencil?' he asked suspiciously when she came back.

'Yes, a few days ago.'

'Why?'

'You know why.'

Safety, of course. And that worried him, because increase in medication aside, he didn't always know when he was getting worse and when he was getting better. But the nurses did, and they very quietly acted accordingly. More time in his room, more frequent checks, moving sharp objects. All bad signs.

'You okay?' Clare asked, 'why don't you tell me whats brewing away in that head of yours.'

Sherlock shook his head and opened the box file. 'I think I'll write it down instead.'

Clare sighed. 'Why won't you talk to us, Sherlock?'

'Because I can't.'

'Because of what your father said to you? Sherlock this isn't about your father, its about you.'

'Is it?' he asked bitterly, pulling the box file towards him and starting to write.

...

In retrospect what was to come was the biggest betrayal of all. He finished writing late that evening. It was a fairy story that began. 'Once upon a time there was a boy called Sherlock. He lived in a big house, surrounded by fields. He had everything that a small boy could wish for, but still he wasn't happy.'

He poured his heart and soul into that story, remembering large chunks of his childhood as he went. Not events as much as emotions; loneliness, confusion, a feeling of being outside of his own life, never really knowing how he was meant to behave, always feeling as if he didn't fit. Like the changeling children in the fairy stories his nanny had used to read him, he felt out of time and place, as if the life that he led was not the one that he was meant to have.

In Sherlock's story there was no wicked stepmother, but there was a wicked father, who shouted and berated and hit. A father that he was terrified of. And it all felt real, too real. He wrote pages, and pages, barely stopping to eat dinner, and that only at Clare's insistence, being selective about his evening medication because he wanted to finish it, refusing the sedatives because he had to keep writing. Clare looked worried at his desperation to write.

'Is it helping?' she asked.

'Yes,' he told her. 'Its helping a lot.'

'Then I won't interfere.'

The night nurse, one he had only seen a few times before had the same reaction, obviously primed by Clare, only adding, 'I'm not going to let you write all night,' but even so it was after midnight before he added the final full stop, and put the box file away in his bedside locker with a sigh. It felt better to have it down on paper. It felt real, it felt true. Knowing, just knowing was what he had needed. Now he could work out how he was going to get home, or if home wasn't an option, then what he was going to do next. But it needed to stay secret, it needed to stay hidden. Because if his father found out that he knew, that he had remembered, then he could only imagine what the consequences would be.

The night nurse came in just as he was putting the box file way in his locker. 'I was just going to come and tell you that it was time for lights out,' she said with a smile. Laura, that was her name. Young, pretty, she reminded him of someone who he had used to know. 'Do you want a sleeping tablet?'

'No,' he shook his head, 'I think I'll sleep tonight,'

And he did, deeply and dreamlessly, and woke in the morning feeling calm and peaceful for the first time since his fathers visit. He didn't look at the box file, didn't need to. He knew what was in it, and that was enough.


	36. Chapter 36

It was late, mid morning when he woke. The sun was streaming into his room and the day was already warm. He lay there enjoying the calm, waiting for the overwhelming sense of doom to arrive, but it didn't come. The voice in his head was quieter too. This morning he could easily ignore it; push it into one of the rooms off the corridor in his mind, and shut the door, so that it could only mutter behind it without interfering with his thoughts.

Matt came in as he was eating breakfast, hungry for the first time in weeks. 'Thought you were going to sleep all day,' Matt grinned at him. 'Better?'

'Much better, you were right. I wrote it all down, and it feels - real, true.'

'Then I think that it almost certainly is. So what now?'

'Now I get better and work out what I'm going to do next - but Matt -' he broke off.

'I wont tell anyone, I swear. I think you're right. You need to keep it under wraps until you get out of this place, I agree.'

Matt left Sherlock that afternoon with a clear conscience. He was going on a course the next week, and wouldn't be back until the following Monday. He had worried a little about opening a can of worms and then buggering off. Had even considered if he should take Clare into his confidence if things had looked as if they were going the wrong way, but now he wouldn't have to.

Sherlock was lying on his bed, reading later that afternoon, contemplating for the first time in months what the future might bring. He could, he thought, finally see a way past this. See a way to get out of here, get back to school or maybe college and more than anything get away from his father. Mycroft would help, he thought, because there was no way he was going to live in the same house as his father again. He wondered if he had any money of his own, money left to him by his mother, perhaps, some way that he could break free from his father. He did remember, he realised, brief flashes of what his father had done to him, of what had happened, and there was no way that he was ever, ever going to risk that happening again.

If it meant leaving home and getting a job, then fine he would do it. He had no idea what he could do, but he would find something, anything. Matt might help, he thought. Matt of all people would understand why he had to get away.

He was startled out of his daydreams by the buzz and click of the door. Too early for dinner, and Clare had only checked on him five minutes previously. Someone different then, but the last person he expected to see was Neil Simmonds, and in his hand he was holding Sherlock's box file.

He sat up quickly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, then just stared in disbelief at the box file in Dr Simmond's hand. His first thought, irrationally was that it might not be his box file. It had been hospital issue stationary after all, it might just be an identical one. Unable to help himself he reached over and opened his bedside locker. Empty. He sank back down on the bed and closed his eyes.

'Thats mine,' he said, trying and failing to keep his tone neutral, 'You have no right to have that. Its private.'

'You are a patient under a section,' Neil Simmonds said calmly, 'nothing is private.'

'No! Dr Harrison promised me. He promised me that nobody would read it.'

'But I am not Dr Harrison, and my methods, as you will find are more traditional than his.'

'What do you mean?' Ice crept down the back of his neck and he was starting to feel dizzy. This couldn't be happening.

'I mean that I after careful consideration I am taking over your case. You will be my patient from now on.'

The dizziness was getting worse, and the room was starting to fade out at the edges. 'Why don't you lie down, you're looking very pale.' Dr Simmonds voice was not without concern, as he came over to sit on the chair by the bed. Sherlock, not wanting to end up in a heap on the floor did as he suggested; he lay down and waited for the dizziness to stop.

He was expecting to see Clare, coming and fussing over him with the blood pressure cuff as she had when this had happened before, but she didn't appear. This then was to be a private conversation.

Dr SImmonds gave him a few minutes, and waited until Sherlock opened his eyes and said flatly. 'You've read it, haven't you.'

'Some of it. The bits that are in English. The rest I'm going to have translated, unless you'll tell me what it says.'

'Please, don't. It was all written a long time ago, while I was still paranoid. It probably doesn't even make any sense.'

'But some of it is what the night staff report you writing so passionately last night. The story at the top of the box I would imagine. Am I right? The story about your father.'

Desperately Sherlock tried to come up with an alternative explanation, words tumbling over each other in his haste to stop Dr Simmonds from discovering the truth which was already all too obvious. 'Its just a story,' he said, 'I was going to do others; write out all the possibilities.'

'But you didn't, did you. You just wrote the one. The one that you believe.'

'No.'

'Sherlock if I'm going to help you, then you need to be honest with me.'

Grasping his last chance, Sherlock said, 'What if it is true.'

'It isn't'

'How do you know that?'

'Because I know your father. I've known him for a long time, Sherlock, and he is not a man who would beat his son. Besides, we have accounts from numerous people stating that they saw you fabricating injuries and then attempting to blame your father.'

'What if he paid them off, or they said that because they were scared of him too. Its a possibility, isn't it? You have to see that its a possibility.'

Neil Simmonds sighed. 'This is paranoia, Sherlock, and a symptom of your illness. I'm sorry, but Dr Harrison was too soft on you for too long.'

'Why won't you listen to me?' Sherlock was aware that he was shouting, sitting up on the bed now, but he didn't care. 'I'm not paranoid. It happened, it was real. I can remember.'

'False memories, planted there by Gemma Haynes, and much as I hate to admit it, inadvertently reinforced by Neil Harrison who came to false conclusions. It is paranoia, Sherlock. It never happened.'

'But it did, please, you have to believe me.'

Clare came into the room, alerted by the shouting. 'What happened, are you okay?' she put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder and he turned into her, gripping her arm and sobbing. '

'Clare, please, tell him, tell him that it was real, that my father really did beat me, please he won't believe me, but I remember.'

Clare looked at Dr Simmonds in confusion. He, however ignored her and continued to address Sherlock in calm, measured tones. 'Apart from it didn't Sherlock, it never happened. You made it up and your illness has made you confuse that with the truth.'

'No!' Sherlock screamed, lashing out with his hand and sending the over the bed table and its contents flying across the room. The water jug capsized, hitting Dr Simmonds in a deluge of water, and the plastic cup skittered across the floor.

'It happened, you bastard, it fucking happened, and you can't tell me that it didn't. You're just trying to protect him, just like everyone else. Why won't anyone listen to me?'

Running feet, the sound of an alarm in the background, then too many people in the room. Hands, holding him down, kicking, screaming, biting, not caring who he hurt and then the sharp stab of a needle again, and Clare cradling him as the room faded and everything went dark.


	37. Chapter 37

Dr Simmonds mind had been made up long before he went into that room, but Sherlock's reaction had sealed his fate. Phoning the duty doctor, he listed Sherlock for ECT the following morning, and gave his instructions to the nursing staff. Sherlock was to be kept sedated overnight and to be first on the list in the morning. Enough was enough. They had tried the gentle approach, now it was time to treat this illness properly. The hospital prided itself on its cure rate, and he wasn't going to let one sixteen year old boy ruin his statistics.

At least he won't know anything about it, Clare thought, as she checked on a sleeping Sherlock before handover, but it still sat badly. She thought about phoning Sarah to update her on events as soon as she reached her car at the end of the shift, but for some strange reason she was wary of being overheard. Perhaps paranoia was catching after all. Instead she waited to phone Sarah until she had driven home and was walking down the road to her flat.

'Have they told him?' Sarah asked.

'No, and given his reaction to Dr Simmonds earlier I think thats probably just as well. They're going to do it anyway, Sarah, irrespective of what you or I say. I tried, believe me, I tried to explain why I thought that it was such a bad idea, but the decision is made. I just thought that you'd want to know before you walked on shift in the morning.'

'So there's no point in me trying to talk them out of it?'

'No, you'll just make things worse. Besides we've both made our views very clear in the past. They're just not interested in our opinion.'

'So they're what, going to keep him sedated and then just take him down to the Treatment Room in the morning and give him a general anaesthetic without his consent? Thats fairly dangerous ground even for Neil Simmonds, to say nothing of completely unethical. Can't we do anything, report it to someone?'

'And keep our jobs? No, I don't think so. He's under a section, remember? They can give him any treatment that they think is appropriate for his psychiatric illness, and they have his fathers consent for the procedure anyway. Neil Simmonds even phoned him this afternoon to confirm that he was still happy. Its all clearly documented in the notes - reason for treatment, anticipated benefits, family consent, all of it.'

'I don't like it.'

'No nor do I, but what can we do? Apart from support him thought it.'

'Poor kid. I just hope for his sake that he doesn't know anything about it until the first session is over.'

Walking from the staffroom onto the high dependency wing the next morning, Sarah heard it as soon as she had buzzed herself through the security doors. A horrible screaming noise that could only be coming from one person. What on earth were they doing to him? She ran down the corridor to find the door to Sherlock's room wide open, and no less than seven people in his room, crowded round one terrified teenager, cowering on the floor in the corner, arms wrapped round his head, screaming as if he was being murdered.

Pushing her way through the people she crouched in front of him. 'Sherlock?' She reached out a hand towards his shoulder. He flinched and backed further into the corner, like a wounded animal. Blood was dripping from his hand where he had pulled out his cannula.

'What happened?' she asked Laurie, the night nurse who was closest.

'They came to get him for ECT. He flipped out.'

'I thought you were going to keep him sedated?'

'We thought that he was. He had some more lorazepam at about 4am, but he woke up when we tried to transfer him onto the trolley. Pulled out his cannula, threw himself onto the floor and has been attacking anyone who comes near him.'

'I'm not surprised. Okay, listen everybody get out, go and wait outside the door. Leave him to me.'

'Seriously? Sarah he's been kicking and lashing out at people.'

'He'll be fine with me, trust me. There are just way too many people in here and its freaking him out.'

Reluctantly they all filed out of the room, leaving her alone with Sherlock.

'Someone's gone to tell Dr Simmonds,' Laurie told her just before she left. 'I reckon that you've got about five minutes before he sends in the heavy mob.'

'What is he going to do? Use tranquiliser darts?' Sarah muttered, until she was left alone in the room. She sat down on the floor next to him. Close, but not too close. Respecting his space, trying to radiate calm.

'Sherlock, its Sarah,' she said quietly. 'They've all gone. Its just you and me.'

He stayed as he was. Curled up, arms wrapped round himself, but at least the dreadful screaming had stopped.

'Listen,' she said, choosing her words carefully, 'I know that you don't want this, but there is absolutely nothing that either you or I can do about it. So how about you let me give you some sedation and then at least you won't be aware of whats going on.'

He shook his head vehemently and tried to shuffle further away from her, even though he was already jammed into the corner. She reached a hand out and touched his shoulder again, this time he didn't pull away. 'Sherlock this is going to happen anyway, you know that, might as well do it the easy way.'

He looked up at her then, so young suddenly, so vulnerable. 'I'm scared,' he said, frankly, alarmingly lucid.

'I know that you are. Let me give you this injection, yes?

He nodded reluctantly and she picked up the syringe abandoned on the bed by the night nurse, and lifting up the sleeve of his t-shirt swiftly gave him the sedative.

'Well done,' she murmured, as grabbing some gauze from the injection tray she put pressure on his bleeding hand.

'WIll you stay with me?' he asked.

'Of course I will, and I'll be there when you wake up, and I'll remind you if you've forgotten.'

He was getting sleepy now, his head lolling forward, and she re-arranged herself so she was sitting close to him, arm around him, so that his head rested on her shoulder. There was a tentative knock on the door.

'Come on in, she murmured, 'but lets keep it nice and calm.'

Five minutes later they were lifting Sherlock onto the treatment table. He didn't even flinch as the cannula went in, and he was anesthetised and the shock applied in a matter of minutes. Sarah found herself choking back tears as she watched the procedure. It had never looked so barbaric to her before. And in that moment she made a decision. She would stay in the clinic until Sherlock was discharged, because she wouldn't leave him, but after that she was going to find another job. She couldn't stay in a place that treated patients, that treated children (because many of them were still children whatever the law might say) like this, with so little regard for their wishes.


	38. Chapter 38

When Sherlock woke up several hours later, he was lying in a very white, very clean room with bright sunshine streaming through the window. A woman in a nurses uniform was sitting next to the bed. She looked familiar.

'Hello,' she smiled at him as he rubbed his eyes and yawned. 'Remember me?'

'I think so.'

'Good. Do you remember my name?'

He thought for a long while, dredging it up from the depths of a brain that felt as if it was filled with treacle. 'Sarah,' he said finally.

She smiled again. 'Thats right. How are you feeling?'

He considered. Again it took him a long time. His head was pounding, his arms and legs hurt and he felt oddly disconnected. 'Rubbish,' he said finally.

'Headache?'

'Yes,' he looked at her suspiciously. How had she known?

'We've been here before Sherlock, remember? I'm not reading your mind. I just know how you always feel after ECT.'

'What happened? Where am I?'

And so Sarah told him, just as she had before. Just as she would again. Told him about Elmhurst and his illness, explained to him about the ECT, and he stared at her lost and confused, trying to process it all, then took the painkillers and slept.

Sarah kept it together for the rest of the shift. Watched Sherlock as he slept, changed his intravenous fluids, checked his observations, answered his confused questions on the rare occasions that he woke, grateful that he remembered her at least. Then she got into her car to drive home, and sat there for a good ten minutes trying to stop the tears that were pouring down here face.

She could only remember one patient who had ever affected her this much in the past. An anorexic girl with recurrent admissions, who had refused invasive feeding, who had pulled her tube out time after time, but in between episodes of defiance had wept on Sarah's shoulder and told her how scared she was of dying. One day Sarah had come into work to be told that the girl had had a cardiac arrest at home. All she could think of was the girls scared face, so young, so very young to die, and had been unable to escape for weeks the feeling that she had failed her in some way.

Muttering to herself that tears wouldn't help anyone, she wiped the tears from her face and phoned Clare, the only person who she thought might understand, and turning up on her doorstep ten minutes later found herself enveloped in a huge hug, and with a large glass of wine thrust into her hand.

'I'm driving.' Sarah said, stupidly, her sensible head winning as always.

'Stay here,' Clare said. 'Ben's away, and I can lend you a clean uniform for the morning. I'd be glad of the company, and you don't look as if you should be on your own this evening.'

And so they sat and talked, and tried to work out how they could help Sherlock.

'How was he afterwards,' Clare asked, after Sarah had told her about the horror of the morning.

'Very much like before. Confused, mistrustful, dazed. Clare what if they've put him back to square one? Its taken us weeks to get him to trust us. What if all of thats gone too?'

'Did he recognise you?'

'Yes, but he couldn't remember where he was, or what had happened.'

'Could have just been the anaesthetic.'

'Come on, you don't believe that any more than I do.'

'No,' Clare agreed. She hesitated,'Sarah, I've known you for a long, long time so please don't take this the wrong way, but do you think - do you think that you should ask to be transferred to another patient? Let someone else look after him?'

'No! Why? Because I'm upset that they've treated him so badly?' Sarah was angry for a split second, then looked at her friend, so concerned, and realised what Clare was trying to say.

'You think that I'm getting too close, too involved.'

'Don't you?'

'I'm a person, not a machine, Clare. He reminds me of my little brother, he's even got the same hair, and if Josh was ever ill like that, I would really, really like to think that someone would care enough to get upset about him, especially if his family wasn't there.'

'I just think that you're going to find this tough,' Clare said, 'And knowing you, you're going to find it hard to hold your tongue,' she added with a smile.

'It is tough, but I want to be there. Clare, I've made a decision. I won't stay at Elmhurst once Sherlock's discharged. I'm going to start looking for another job.'

'Seriously? Why. You've always loved it there.'

'I love the job, and I liked working with James Harrison, but Neil Simmonds is a bully and an idiot, and I won't stay somewhere that treats patients like that. I can't. I'll stay until we can get Sherlock home, and then I'm leaving. But the question is, how on earth are we going to get Sherlock away from Simmonds?'


	39. Chapter 39

After an uneasy night's sleep on Clare's sofa bed, Sarah arrived at work the next morning to find Sherlock still disorientated, and with little memory of the events of the previous weeks, let alone of anything before his admission.

'I warned you,' she said to Caitlin, who was forced to abandon Sherlock's therapy session later that day when she discovered that Sherlock had no memory of who she was, and was unable to stay awake for long enough to attempt conversation. 'This is exactly what happened before. The day of the ECT he's too confused and sleepy to be up to much, and by the time the anaesthetic has worn off enough for him to remember whats going on and have a coherent conversation, then its time for the next treatment. This isn't going to get him better, Caitlin, you have to see that.'

'But its not my decision, is it? Dr Simmonds is his supervising consultant, and he says a minimum of six lots of ECT before we reassess.'

'Six lots of ECT means two weeks of him being like this, too sleepy too talk, too out of it to eat. How can that possibly be good for him?'

'Its what his father wants,' Caitlin said, then caught herself, 'I mean its what is clinically indicated?'

'Is it now, ' Sarah said softly as Caitlin left the room, 'how very interesting.'

...

The rest of the week continued exactly as Sarah had predicted. On Friday night she met Clare for a summit meeting in the pub. Clare had tried, and failed yet again that day to persuade Dr Simmonds to stop the ECT.

'Come on, think,' Sarah said. 'What can we do to stop it? Because if they go on like this he's just going to get worse and worse.'

'We can't do anything,' Clare said, 'they're not listening to us and the only reason that they wouldn't do ECT is if he became too unwell for an anaesthetic.'

Sarah considered, 'Like if he got a fever,' she said slowly.

'Together with some other symptoms, Clare added, realising what Sarah was saying. 'We'd have to come up with some other symptoms, because his blood tests would be normal. Otherwise they'll just blame the medication.'

'I'm sure that we could come up with something, ' Sarah said, 'but it would have to last a while, long enough for us to prove that he was getting better psychiatrically.'

'He would have to start eating and drinking,' Clare said, 'start talking to Caitlin too.'

'But he can't talk to Caitlin about his father,' Sarah said quickly, 'thats what got him here in the first place. Caitlin needs to believe that those memories have all gone.'

'Think we could pull it off?' Clare asked quietly.

'I'm sure that we could,' Sarah said, then they looked at each other, grinned, and then dissolved into helpless laughter, realising what they were about to do. They were about to beat the system.

...

It had to be a joint effort. Sarah and Clare were alternating blocks of days looking after Sherlock at the moment, neither of them wanting to leave him to be looked after by someone that he didn't know. Sarah was working the weekend and Monday, Clare Tuesday and Wednesday. They both had to have a part in fabricating this illness if they were going to stop the ECT.

'Do we tell Sherlock what we're doing?' Clare asked, 'Or do we just tell him that he's got a temperature and leave it at that.'

'We can't not tell him,' Sarah said, 'he's paranoid enough as it is. He needs to know whats going on. Besides he needs to be able to describe some convincing symptoms. I think you're right, flu-like symptoms would be best - sore throat, achey muscles, feeling generally unwell, and that would explain the normal blood tests.'

'So when do we tell him?'

'I'll wait until Sunday if I can, unless he gets upset about the ECT before.'

'He doesn't get upset about anything at the moment though, does he? Just lies there, and sleeps as much as he can, tries to shut everything out. He's giving up, thats what scares me. Its not just the depression, its everything thats happened to him, everything that we're doing him.'

'Everything that they're doing to him, not everything that we're doing to him,' Sarah said firmly, 'but you're right. The best thing for him now would be to get him out of this place, away from Simmonds.'

'But away to where? He's not physically or mentally well enough to go home without proper care, and even if his family got a private nurse in, that would put him back at the mercy of his father and that GP all over again. Besides, his father would never let him go home. In another hospital he wouldn't even have us to look after him, so what does that leave?'

'What about his brother?' Sarah asked. 'At least he seems to care to an extent. He's been coming to visit.'

'Yes, and filling Sherlock's head with conspiracy theories. Plus he's firmly in his fathers control from what I've seen.'

'But is he? Sherlock said he'd told him not to talk about his father to protect him. Thats not being in his fathers pocket, thats trying to help.'

'Where's Matt when we need him? ' Clare said thoughtfully. Sarah looked at her sharply, 'He would know, wouldn't he?' Clare continued, 'Sherlock talks much more to him than to anyone else. He would know if the brother is likely to be on our side, if he could help get him out of here.'

'But it would have to be with his fathers consent, surely. He's his legal guardian, plus he's under a section.'

'They'd lift that if he got better, and isn't there a way to make his father think that he would be better off out of hospital? I don't know Sarah, this whole think is scrambling my brain. I vote we bring Matt in on the plan. He cares about Sherlock too, and he's prepared to stick his neck out if needs be. He's not afraid to go against the establishment, in fact I get the distinct impression that he positively enjoys it.'

So the plan was made. Sarah would tell Sherlock what they were plotting on Sunday, unless he became anxious about the ECT before. They would enlist Matt when he returned Monday, and see what he thought about talking to Mycroft. But there was another problem. The fictitious illness would only buy them a limited amount of time, maybe a week at the most, because they couldn't hope to keep it up for longer than that. They would have to use that time to get Sherlock functioning and cooperating with therapy, or at least appearing to cooperate to a level at which Dr Simmonds would agree that more ECT was not necessary. This meant that despite the high doses of medication which left him struggling to construct a sentence at times, he had to be able to convince Caitlin that he had forgotten all about his father, or that if he did remember he now believed that it was a delusion, and not the truth.

'We'll have to get him off some of his medication,' Sarah said suddenly, 'or else he'll never be able to do it. Think about it, Clare, its not just the anaesthetic thats making him like this, its the sheer number of chemicals that we're pouring into him four times a day. I've never seen a patient on so many tablets.'

Clare sat and thought for a while. 'But we can't change his medication without medical input, and Caitlin won't go against Dr Simmonds.'

'We can't change it, no, but Sherlock could refuse to take some of it. Slowly of course, in a controlled way...'

'With us suggesting which ones he might like to decline? Won't they realise what we're up to?'

'I don't see why. He's got form, remember, he's done it before. If we're both helping him then they'll assume that its him doing it rather than one of us suggesting it. They won't even consider the fact that we might be working together.'

Clare nodded, wondering not the first time why someone as bright as Sarah had chosen to go into nursing rather than another profession. 'That would work. So which tablets do we get him to stop?'

'Well he was doing okay a few weeks ago, wasn't he. Before his father came to visit, so I suggest we get him as close back to the medication he was on then as possible, pull back on the sedation if we can. If we can get him up and about, eating a bit better and talking to us, then I'd say we'd be halfway there.'

'So you're talking about fabricating illness, changing his medication, and a lot of nagging and bullying.'

'Exactly. You up for it?'

'Oh God, yes. Might be the most exciting thing thats happened round here in years.'

Sarah looked serious for a moment. 'Clare you do realise that we could both lose our jobs? I mean I'm leaving anyway, but what about you, are you sure that you want to do this?'

'Absolutely. I don't like the way that they're running things there at the moment either, but I'm happy to sit it out under my own terms. I won't sit back and watch them destroying a patient like that though. I cant. No job is worth that. I want to help.'

'Good,' Sarah grinned at her. 'Then we've got a plan.'


	40. Chapter 40

Full of enthusiasm, Sarah started work on Saturday morning, ready to talk to Sherlock and to start his rehabilitation, but the day did not get off to a good start. The night staff reported that he had had nightmares overnight, and had required additional sedation. Letting herself into his room, Sarah found him curled up in bed, still asleep, and it was nearly lunchtime before she could get any sense out of him.

'Afternoon,' she said cheerfully, when he finally opened his eyes and looked at her.

He stared at her blankly for a while. Clare had been looking after him yesterday, and she hadn't seen him since his last lot of ECT. Had he forgotten her?

'Sarah,' she said gently, 'remember?'

'I remember, ' he closed his eyes again.

He looked absolutely defeated, Sarah thought, and in one horrible moment she realised that he was giving up. Learned helplessness, thats what they called it. The realisation that whatever you did would make no difference to the outcome, to what happened to you. Thats what we've taught him, she thought. That whatever he says, we will tell him that is not true; that whatever he thinks is wrong, and that both will be punished with medication or ECT, so he has stopped talking and is trying to stop thinking. How one earth do I get him out of this?

Hope, she thought. I need to give him hope, to show him that there is a way forward. Pulling up a chair next to the bed, she put a hand on his shoulder. 'Sherlock,' she said,' I need to talk to you.'

'Too tired.'

'I know, thats part of the problem. Look at me for a moment, will you.'

Wearily he opened his eyes, 'What?'

'Sherlock, what I'm going to say to you could get me, and Clare into a lot of trouble, so you have to keep it to yourself. Okay?'

'Okay,'

There was a spark there. He looked - interested for the first time since the ECT had started.

'Tell me what you remember.'

He shook his head slowly, 'Not much. I remember you, and Clare. I remember being taken for ECT, I remember feeling awful afterwards, but everything else is just too much effort. Its as if my head is full of treacle. I probably could remember if I tried but it hurts too much, and then the ECT just wipes it all again. There's no point in trying. Its easier just to sleep.' His words were slurred from the sedation, and he spoke slowly, putting effort into pulling out each word.

Exactly, Sarah thought. Pointless, hopeless, giving up. 'What if we could stop you having any more ECT?' she asked quietly.

'The doctor yesterday said that I had to have more.'

'She did say that, yes, but we can stop it we think, that is Clare and I can, if thats what you want.'

He closed his eyes, trying not to cry.

She sat with him in silence for a while, waiting while he composed himself enough to focus on her again.

'Sherlock the only way to stop you having ECT on Monday is if you're ill. They won't give you ECT if you've got a temperature, because of the anesthetic.'

'Okay,' he sounded confused, doubtful, unable to work out what she was trying to say.

'So you are going to mysteriously develop a temperature tomorrow afternoon, okay? And then you're going to have a temperature on and off for the next few days. Clare and I can take care of that. We need you to say that you feel unwell. Not very unwell, because the duty doctor won't find anything when they come to see you, and your blood tests will be normal. We thought mild flu - sore throat, sore muscles, feeling hot and cold, can you do that'

'Yes, of course.'

'Next is the tricky bit. To stop you having any more ECT once the temperature goes, which it will have to or they'll get suspicious, you have to get better. We have to get you out of bed, eating and drinking properly and talking to Caitlin in therapy.'

'What if I say the wrong things?'

'You won't,' Sarah hesitated, 'Because Clare and I, and hopefully Matt will tell you what to say, and what not to say. Most of the time you can honestly say that you don't remember. If you can remember, then I'd still stick to that story. Caitlin will believe it, we'll back it up, andif your memory loss appears to be profound, then they're even less likely to give you more ECT.'

'But how can I talk if I'm not meant to be able to remember anything?'

'You can talk about how you feel, tell her that you're feeling more positive, even if you're not. Tell her that the voices have gone, that you want to get home, that you can see things getting better.'

Sherlock was silent for a long time, then swallowed hard and looking directly at Sarah said, 'But its not true. I can't see things getting better, and I don't want to go home.'

'I know,' Sarah said gently, 'but its not good for you here, Sherlock. You need to get out of here, if not home then somewhere, because otherwise Neil Simmonds is just going to keep giving you ECT, and thats making things worse, not better. And you were getting better, before...'

'Before my father came,' Sherlock said quietly.

'So you do remember.'

He nodded miserably, 'but I don't remember why. I just remember that he came, that he was angry with me, and then I remember them coming to get me for ECT.'

'Do you want me to tell you what happened? Would you be able to pretend to Caitlin that you didn't know?'

'Probably, but I don't want to know. All I know is that its painful, and bad, and not a door that I want to open.'

Sarah sighed. 'Can you lie about the rest. I hate to ask, but we have to get you out of here.'

'If I have to, yes.'

'There's something else,' Sarah said, 'We need to cut down your medication, or you're not going to be able to think straight enough to fool Caitlin. So I'm going to tell you what to take and what you need to say that you don't want to take, okay?'

He nodded, then said, 'Sarah?'

'What?'

'Do you really think that I can get out of here.'

'I know that you can. Sherlock, you're going to have to trust me on this. We can get you well, and get you back to a normal life, but you just have to be able to trust us. Me, Clare, Matt, nobody else. Can you do that?'

He nodded. 'Yes, I think that I can.'

Sunday went as planned. Sarah took Sherlock's temperature at lunchtime, documenting carefully in the notes that he was complaining of feeling unwell and that he had a fever, gave him two paracetamol, which he need for a headache anyway and called the duty doctor to see him. The duty doctor, not surprisingly could find nothing wrong with him, took a set of blood tests, all of which were normal, and informed him that unfortunately if his temperature had not settled by this evening he wouldn't be able to have any ECT the next morning. Sherlock was barely able to suppress his grin, and looked so cheerful once the doctor had left the room that Sarah had to remind him that he was meant to be ill.

'So what now?' he asked.

'Now you pretend to be ill if anyone comes into the room, try and start eating properly, because if you don't do that you'll never get out of there, and we keep cutting down your sedation. Tomorrow is going to be a bit tricky, because you need to start getting out of bed, but you're meant to be ill, so we'll have to take it slowly, still a couple of hours sitting in the chair would be reasonable, and then we can take it from there.'

'Sarah?'

'Yes?'

Sherlock looked at her and considered, 'Thank you,' he said, as if the words were unfamiliar to him.

'You're welcome,' she smiled at him, 'you're taking all of this very well, you know. When you first came in you were so paranoid, you didn't trust anyone, and look at you now, letting us help you. You've come a long way.'

'Before I didn't know who to trust, now I do.'

'So you do remember.'

'No, not really. Just the confusion, and feeling sure that there was more going on than people were letting on, and I was right, wasn't I? There was a conspiracy.'

'Yes there was,' Sarah said, 'Gemma Haynes, your father, even Neil Simmonds to an extent, none of them were who they seemed.'

'Was Gemma the psychologist?'

'Yes. You remember her?'

'I remember a woman with dark hair and too much lipstick. I didn't like her.'

'No, and you were right to. Do you want me to tell you what happened?'

'Please.'

And that was the pattern for the next few days; Sarah, and later Clare and Matt filling Sherlock in on what had happened, then telling him again when he forgot, and again. Carefully and patiently telling him the truth after all this time.


	41. Chapter 41

Coming into work on Monday after his week away, Matt tried to keep his face impassive during handover as Sarah reported on Sherlock's progress over the weekend, and the illness that was going to keep him from having ECT that day. A full discussion would come at the team meeting later that morning.

'What happened?' he asked her quietly, as they left the room together.

'I'll tell you later,' she said. 'Are you free this morning? Why don't you come and spend some time with Sherlock before the meeting. I'm sure he'd be glad to see you.'

'Give me half an hour to sort some things out and I'll be there.'

Sherlock jumped as Matt let himself into the room some time later. 'Its okay,' Sarah said soothingly, 'its just Matt. No Caitlin until this afternoon, remember?'

Sherlock looked awful, Matt thought, much worse than when he had seen him a little over a week ago, and he hadn't looked great then. He looked thinner and more exhausted than ever. They had said in handover that he was ill, and he could well believe it.

'You okay, kid? he asked. 'You look like shit.'

'Thanks,' Sherlock murmured, then looked at Sarah for confirmation.

'Its Matt, remember?' she told him. 'I told you that he was going to come and see you.' She dropped her voice and turned her back to the door. 'Matt's going to help us to get you out of here, at least I hope that he is.'

Matt looked at her in confusion, then pulled up a chair beside Sherlock's bed and sat down on it heavily.

'Right. How about you explain to me exactly what has been going on. I go away leaving you looking much better, with your head finally sorted about your Dad and everyone talking about when we can get you home, and I come back a week later to you looking like ten degrees of crap, allegedly ill in bed, and in the middle of another course of ECT. What on earth happened?'

'Dr Simmonds got hold of Sherlock's box file,' Sarah said succinctly, as if this explained everything, and it did. To Matt, anyway, Sherlock still didn't have any idea what she was talking about.'

'Box file? What box file?' he asked.

'The box file which you wrote everything down in,' Matt said groaning, 'the one that I told you to write everything down in. About your Dad, about what happened. Its all my fault, I should have thought,' he stood up and started pacing the room. 'I'm so stupid! James Harrison promised never to look in there, but Neil Simmonds is a whole new kettle of fish. But if he's read it, then he knows that you do. Is that why they gave you more ECT?'

Sherlock looked at Sarah confused, too drowsy from the medication to even be frustrated.

'Sherlock doesn't remember, Matt, but yes, thats pretty much exactly what happened. He told Sherlock that it was all a delusion, a sign that his paranoia was getting worse, and he listed him for ECT the next morning.'

'And you don't remember anything?' Matt asked Sherlock.

He shrugged, 'Not much, bits and pieces, thats all. What was in that box file?'

'What really happened with your father. Why you're here. The truth. We need to get it back, thats the best way to explain it to you. Does Neil Simmonds still have it, Sarah?'

'I imagine so, but thats not whats important now. Listen Matt we only have an hour or so before team meeting to explain whats going on. But first, I need to make sure that you understand that we are breaking just about every rule there is, Clare and I, to get Sherlock well and out of here. Are you prepared to help us?

'To get him away from Simmonds and his cronies? Absolutely, bring it on.'

Swiftly Sarah explained to Matt the plan. Matt, predictably had some suggestions of his own. 'We need to get the box file back,' he said, 'Or at least a copy of what you wrote last weekend.'

'Why?' Sherlock asked wearily. 'I'd rather not know.'

Matt shook his head, 'You tried that remember? No, of course you don't remember, sorry, but you did try it. Tried blocking it out. It just made you more paranoid, and made the nightmares worse. Do you remember them? Are you still having them?'

'I don't think so, but then I sleep pretty much all the time at the moment anyway, and I never remember anything that I dream about.'

'You're not shouting out in your sleep anymore,' Sarah said, 'So I would say they've probably gone for now, but then you've been sedated or under a general anaesthetic so much of the time in the last week its difficult to say.'

'You need to know,' Matt said firmly, 'but Sarah's right, you can't let on to Caitlin that you know. When are you seeing her, this afternoon? Fine. Just stick to the plan. Tell her that you can't remember, and I'll find a way to get your story back to you, so you can read it for yourself.'

'Can't you just tell me?'

'I don't know all of it, Sherlock, you never told me, and besides I think that to believe it you have to read it in your own words, to know that its true, because thats what you had such a problem with before, knowing what was real. If I tell you, why should you trust me?'

At the team meeting, Sarah followed the plan again. She told the meeting that Sherlock seemed much better that morning, despite his ongoing fever. That the voices seemed to have stopped, that he had eaten breakfast (only with a fair amount of bullying it was true, but she wasn't going to tell the meeting that), and that he had started to talk to both her and Matt that morning.

'Matt? How did you find him?' Neil Simmonds asked.

Matt looked up suspiciously from the patterns that he had been drawing on the piece of paper in front of him. It was unusual for Neil Simmonds to ask an assistant their opinion. Did he suspect something? 'Well he looks awful,' he said slowly, 'he obviously hasn't been eating, the combination of the ECT and the anaesthetic has knocked him for six, and he could hardly remember who I was.' He risked a glance at Sarah, 'plus I would say that he's lost just about every memory that he had after the last treatment course.' Sarah gave a small smile and looked down. 'But,' he continued, 'he's not paranoid any more, he seems less depressed, although its difficult to tell with all the medication that he's on - and he hasn't mentioned his father, which has to be good right?' The smoothness of the lie impressed even Matt himself, and looking up he saw that Neil Simmonds was looking - pleased, almost smug. Good.

'Very perceptive Matt. So the ECT is working, yes?'

Matt hesitated, 'Honestly? I think that the ECT has left him so dazed and confused that he doesn't know which way is up, and I don't think losing the rest of his memories has done him any favours. If you're asking my opinion I think its the medication that has worked; either way he's getting better, but I think that more ECT would be a bad plan.'

'I suggest we review again tomorrow afternoon,' Neil Simmonds said briskly, unable to admit that Matt might be right. 'If there's no sign of a return of the delusions by then, we can think about holding off the ECT for a few days, keep it on review.'


	42. Chapter 42

Matt wasn't convinced by Simmonds' apparent change of heart. Sarah was right, they needed to get Sherlock away from Neil Simmonds, and fast, and he could think of only one person who could help them to do that. Walking out to a quiet area of the ground, he took out his phone and dialed Mycroft Holmes. Frustratingly there was no answer on his mobile, it was cutting straight into answer phone, what was this? Mycroft had given him his number that first day he had seen him walking towards the car park. Had asked him to call him if there were any problems with Sherlock, and now, what, nothing? Tapping the phone absent-mindedly against his head, he phoned another number.

'Matthew, what can I do for you,' came a clipped voice at the other end of the phone. Piers was obviously at work.

'Bad time?' Matt asked.

'No, I've got five minutes,' the sound of a door shutting and feet walking down a corridor, 'What's up? You never phone unless you want something. Need a bed for the night again?'

Matt chuckled. There was nothing like good friends, the ones who had seen you blind drunk in Freshers week and had never let you forget it. The ones, in Piers' case, who you had had a drunken one night stand with, and still managed to stay mates with. Good friends who you could turn to for a favour. Who might just happen to work in the same profession as the person that you were trying to get hold of.

'I'm trying to get hold of Mycroft Holmes. Its important, but he's not answering his mobile, its coming up as unobtainable. Any idea how I can get hold of him.'

'Mycroft? Haven't seen him for months, I think I've just got a mobile number too.'

Matt squeezed his nose, trying to put this delicately. 'Piers, please, this is important. I know that you can contact Mycroft. Can you just get him a message for me? Tell him that I need to talk to him urgently about his brother. He'll understand.'

'Why do I get the feeling that I shouldn't ask?'

'Because you shouldn't. Best for you to know as little as possible. Please, Piers.'

'I'll see what I can do,' he hesitated. 'Matt you're not in any trouble are you? Because that family...'

'No, no, nothing like that. Just - pass on the message for me, yeah? And Piers - I'll come up and see you soon, I could do with a proper night out.'

'Done. I'll be in touch, or Mycroft will.'

'Thanks.'

So that just left the box file, but how on earth was he going to get hold of that? Fortunately Neil Simmonds solved that one for him, cornering him for a little career 'chat' in his office, in which he surprisingly offered to put in a good word for Matt for the clinical psychology course. Two offers of a reference in one week, that couldn't be bad. Matt didn't like to say that he didn't know if he wanted Neil Simmonds name on his application form, but still, a reference from the head of the clinic could only be a good thing surely. As long as he wasn't stupid enough to think that a reference would buy Matt's allegiance. He didn't give that easily.

During the conversation, Neil Simmonds mentioned that he was going to a meeting outside the hospital for the rest of the afternoon, even walking with Matt towards the main entrance at the end of his conversation, as if to prove it. It was then fairly simple to double back to his office, pick the lock (Matt's past had been a little more colourful than he most people realised), and let himself silently into the office. Once in the office he looked around for Sherlock's box file. Where would it be? Nowhere obvious, not on the desk or on the bookshelves. A search of the filing cabinet was also unsuccessful. Matt was just beginning to wonder if Simmonds could have sentthe whole thing to Sherlock's father, when he realised that he could have taken them out of the original box. Of course, how stupid. Searching through the files on the bookcase he found Sherlock's notes in a blue document wallet slotted between minutes from the last two years governor's meetings, and a collection of articles on ECT. Taking out the documents, he replaced the empty wallet, banking on the fact that Neil Simmonds wouldn't be looking at them for a while, and selecting an old copy of the British Journal of Psychiatry from the bookshelves slipped the sheets of paper between its pages.

Cautiously letting himself out of the office, he narrowly avoided walking straight into Dr Simmonds secretary, but managed to swiftly close the door again swiftly without her noticing. Matt's presence in Neil Simmond's office when he was out of the hospital would have been extremely difficult to explain, even for him.

Walking into Sherlock's room five minutes later, he was surprised to find Sarah sitting in the chair by the door. She raised a finger to her lips and indicated the door with her head. Sherlock was asleep, and Sarah obviously didn't want him disturbed.

'Is he okay?' Matt asked, as she closed the door behind them, and they headed for the nearby nurses station.

'Yes, he's fine, just tired. Better to let him sleep. Talking to Caitlin took it out of him.'

'I'd forgotten about that. How did it go?'

'He did well, helped I have to say by me sitting in the chair just behind her and nodding and shaking my head, but he stuck to the story. Told her he couldn't remember anything at all before he came here, that the voices had gone, which incidentally I think that they have, so maybe the ECT did some good after all, and that he was feeling more positive.'

'And how did Caitlin take it?'

'She seemed convinced, if a little frustrated at his lack of memory. Its a bit difficult to do psychotherapy with a patient who can't remember anything before three days ago, it would appear. But at least they can't accuse him of not engaging. He put on a good show of trying to remember and of cooperating.'

'Good.' Matt handed her the journal. 'Tell Sherlock that there's an article that I think he might be interested in on page 37,' he said.

Sarah opened the journal under the desk and then shut it again quickly. 'How one earth did you get hold of these?'

'Best not to ask. Tell Sherlock that I'll put them back when he's finished with them, or destroy them if he prefers. Up to him.'

'Matt if someone finds us with these..'

'Don't let them.' he said briefly. 'I'll take them home with me later if he's not awake by then, bring them back tomorrow.'

And that was exactly what he did. Took them home, took them out of the journal that he had hidden them in and sat there for a long time considering. Now here was an interesting dilemma. That he should make a copy seemed obvious, just in case Neil Simmonds got hold of the originals again, because it was after all Sherlock's story, and Matt knew that he had a right to read it; he could do that at work in the morning if he got in early. Whether he should read it himself was another question. He hadn't asked Sherlock's permission, but then Sherlock had asked him what was in it. That implied that he thought that Matt had read it, and he didn't mind. And there was still the chance that he would be caught red-handed with the story in the morning, and Sherlock would never have a chance to read what was in it. Reassuring himself that he was reading it for Sherlock's benefit and not for his own curiosity, Matt made himself a cup of tea and settled down to read, taking notes as he went, just in case.

It was a harrowing story, not dissimilar to his own, although his had a few added bells and whistles that he was grateful to see were missing from Sherlock's story. Escalating physical abuse was the theme of his story, hatred of his father, distrust of adults in general, and a feeling of being disconnected from the rest of the world even from a young age. Now that was interesting. It fitted in with James Harrison's theories about autism, Aspergers maybe. This inability to be able to predict what other people were thinking or feeling unless they directly expressed it. The frustration of misinterpretation which had led, in such a bright individual to an almost obsessive need to learn how to interpret others through physical cues. He had taught himself to analyse others, because it helped him to fit in better. Because he couldn't do it in the instinctive ways that others did, and he had discovered that he was very good at it. There was more to this story than simply a tale of abuse. There was a story of a whole childhood, of how a character was developed, and it was fascinating. What Matt found most moving was not what had happened to Sherlock, but how he had adapted to it, and what he had made himself into in order to to survive it.

Sherlock needed to read this to understand himself better, of that he now had no doubt. He was also very sure that Sherlock needed to be kept as far away from his father as possible if he was to get well and remain well. And the only person who could help him with that was Mycroft. Mycroft who remained unobtainable on his phone, and still hadn't contacted him.


	43. Chapter 43

Matt arrived at work early the following morning, photocopied Sherlock's story and hid the copy in an envelope in his locker, buried under a pile of books.

Handover brought interesting developments. Neil Simmonds wasn't there, he rarely attended handover, tending to keep his decision making for the twice weekly team meetings. Caitlin was in attendance however, taking her new responsibilities seriously, and she was concerned about the extent of Sherlock's memory loss.

'I did some reading on it last night,' she said, 'And its rare, very rare to have memory loss this profound. It should come back, at least the majority of it should, but how long it will take is anyones guess. Until it does, therapy is going to be almost impossible.'

'But he is getting better,' Clare said,'the voices have gone, the paranoia and delusions seem to have gone, now we just need to get him functioning again, and then we can think about getting him home.'

But Caitlin shook her head. 'Not in the near future,' she said.' His father is adamant that he should stay here for another few months at least. He doesn't think that going home would be in Sherlock's best interest, not after this last relapse.'

Clare's temper rarely got the better of her. This, unfortunately, was one of those time. 'Caitlin who is his doctor, you or that useless father of his who only visits to shout at him and tell him what a disappointment he is? Its not up to his family to decide whats clinically appropriate for him, its up to us. And he doesn't need to go to his family home necessarily, in fact thats probably the worse possible thing for him to do, given the family dynamics. Cant we talk to his brother, see if there's another relative or something that he could go to. He said something about family in France, that could work. Give him a bit of distance from what happened before.

Caitlin frowned, 'But nothing did happen did it, thats just the point.'

Clare exchanged a surreptitious glance with Matt, 'But something must have happened mustn't it? Because there's always a trigger, we all know that. Plus the memories of his mother are all at his home. Better for him to get away from that, surely, at least for a while. We know that he doesn't have a good relationship with his father, whatever the reason, his brother is out of the country a lot of the time, so is a houseful of servants really the best place for him to be?'

'No, here is the best place for him to be,' Caitlin said, as if she was unsure why Clare was arguing.

'He's getting institutionalized,' Clare warned, 'and he's starting to give up. We need to get him out of here while he still thinks that he can get back to a normal life.'

'We'll discuss it at team meeting on Friday,' Caitlin said firmly. 'Until then we'll keep going as we are. Neil Simmonds is coming to see him at ten. He wants to see how he's doing himself.'

To feedback to Sherlock's father, presumably, Clare thought, but as his supervising consultant it was reasonable for Dr Simmonds to come and see Sherlock. As long as he didn't make things worse. As long as Sherlock could stick to the story.

Matt was in demand that morning, and wouldn't have time to spend with Sherlock until thae afternoon, but he dropped in on his way past.

'I've got your story,' he said without preamble.

Sherlock looked at him blankly. 'Story, what story?'

'The one that you wrote about your father.' He dropped his voice. 'I swiped it from Dr Simmonds office, best not to ask about that one. I can bring it to you later if you like, if you want to read it.'

Sherlock was looking at him in confusion. 'Is this something else that I'm meant to remember?'

Matt exchanged a worried look with Clare,' You wrote a story, Sherlock, about your father.' Clare told him,' About what really happened. Dr Simmonds found it, thats why they decided to give you more ECT. Don't you remember?'

He shook his head slowly, 'No, nothing. When did you tell me about this?'

'Yesterday,' Matt said, 'But thats fine, its just the ECT affecting how you lay down memories. So do you want to see it?'

Sherlock considered for a long moment, 'No, I don't think that I do,' he said slowly

'Why not?' Matt's confusion made him speak without his normal consideration.

'Because I don't think that I want to remember.'

'But you need to remember?'

'Do I? Why? And according to who - you? Clare? How do you know whats best. As I see it whatever is in that story will be painful, and I've had enough of that, thanks.'

He looked tired, Matt thought, and haunted all over again. he checked his watch. He had five minutes before his next appointment. He had time. He sat down next to the bed, watching Sherlock ripping the paper napkin that had come with his as yet untouched breakfast to shreds.

'Nightmare?' he asked

'Yes.' Sherlock wouldn't look at him, concentrating instead on the napkin, which he was turning into a stack of confetti.

'About your father?'

'No. Is that what they're normally about? This one was about my mother.'

'Do you want to talk about it?'

'No, I want to forget about it.'

'They didn't say anything about it at handover.'

'Thats because I didn't tell anyone. I couldn't wake up, not for what felt like hours, because of the sleeping tablets. Then I thought that if I told anyone they might think that it meant I was getting worse and use it as an excuse to give me more ECT, so I just lay here and tried to stay awake.'

'They won't give you ECT for nightmares, Sherlock. In some ways nightmares are good. Therapists love them, because it helps them to know whats going on inside your head.'

'But I don't want them to know whats going on in my head, especially not Neil SImmonds.'

'If its about your mother then I'd talk to him about it, just stick to the story about your father.'

'About not remembering anything? I don't have to stick to the story, I don't remember, not a thing.'


	44. Chapter 44

Even Neil Simmonds felt a vague sense of unease at the extent of Sherlock's memory loss when he came to see him that afternoon. In theory he was there to assess Sherlock's progress, but all of them knew that he was there to make a decision about ECT. Fortunately Sherlock's observation chart documented a low grade fever that morning, which was planned to spike again that evening whatever Neil Simmonds' decision, just in case.

'So you are saying that you can remember nothing about your life before you came here.'

'No, I told you. I remember my mothers funeral, I remember her face, I remember her playing the piano in a room with yellow curtains. Nothing else until I came here.' Sherlocks's voice was slow and measured. He sounded - irritated almost, Clare thought, as if he was talking to someone who was infinitely intellectually inferior to himself.

'That would be profound memory loss, even from ECT.'

'Do you think that I'm lying?'

Neil Simmonds frowned, and looked at him carefully, 'No, I don't. So' he paused, 'what do you remember about the rest of your family?'

'I know that I have a brother, but I cant remember what he looks like, or anything else about him other than that I find him difficult, but I trust him. My father - is a blank. I can't remember anything about him.'

'And what do you feel when you think about your father?'

'Nothing,' Sherlock lied smoothly, 'I told you, its a blank.'

'Thinking about your father doesn't make you feel anxious in any way?'

'No, why should it?'

Neil Simmonds frowned again. 'This memory loss is going to make psychotherapy very hard,' he said. 'Maybe we should try hypnosis, see what you can recover.'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took a deep breath. 'Losing those memories has been - painful for me, very painful. I would prefer not to drag them back up again.'

'It may be necessary.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because its illogical. If the memories made me unwell, better for them stay lost. They're gone, time to move on from here.'

Did Neil Simmonds believe him? Clare couldn't tell, sitting where she was behind him, facing Sherlock, ready to help him if he needed it but he didn't. He was doing just fine on his own. Brilliantly in fact. Too brilliantly.

'They may resurface later.'

'Fine then I'll deal with that if and when it happens, not now.'

'And the nightmares? I'm told that you're still having the nightmares. Tell me about those.'

'I dream about my mother stuck upside down in the car accident that killed her. I'm outside the window and I'm trying to get to her, but I can't. She's screaming at me to help. And then I realise that the car is about to blow up and I run away and leave her.'

His jaw was clenched, his voice tight and controlled. He turned his face away, eyes closed for a moment, lost in the images inside his head. 'I don't want to talk about it,' he said finally.

'Its natural to feel guilt when someone you love has died. It was beyond your control. You have to accept that.'

'I said that I don't want to talk about it.'

'Fine. Do you dream about anything else? You were having nightmares about being chased. Do you still have those?'

'No.' Sherlock said, 'just about my mother.'

You're lying, Clare thought, but lying very convincingly. All part of the plan, is thatwhat have we taught you in here? How not to trust, how to lie, how to calculate every sentence that you speak for possible impact.

'What do you remember about when you first came in here?'

'Very little, I told you, I remember very little before three days ago. I'm told that I heard voices, but I couldn't tell you what those voices were, or what they said. I remember certain people, but other than that nothing.'

Neil Simmonds was getting frustrated, Clare could tell from the set of his shoulders and his clipped questions.

'Sherlock, it is going to be very difficult to get you well if you won't cooperate with us.'

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, 'Is that a threat?' he asked, 'If I don't cooperate then you will give more ECT? But its the ECT thats the problem isn't it? The ECT wipes my memory, and then I can't tell you about my past, which is meant to be the cause of my illness. I can't remember my delusions, or my nightmares, or even how I feel about things. Or is that the eighteen tablets a day that you're pouring into me?'

Interesting, Clare thought. He was calm, too calm, much calmer than Neil Simmonds, and he thought that he was in control, but he had just made a mistake.

'Eighteen tablets a day that you are obviously not taking,' Dr Simmonds said, 'Or you wouldn't be capable of this degree of logical thought.'

'I'm taking most of them,' Sherlock said.

'Are you now.' He turned to Clare, 'Sherlock's drug chart please.'

Clare went and got it from the desk in the corner, grateful that it was accurate.

'He's taking all the regular medication,' she said, 'but he was sleeping most of the time on all the sedation. He's opted not to take the pericyazine, because he's not anxious, and he's cutting down on the lorazepam. He' s sedated enough on the regular medication and we thought that it might be adding to the headaches.'

'So you've been discussing with him which tablets he can elect not to take without medical input.' This was dangerous territory. Time for a white lie of her own.

'Sarah caught him trying to hide tablets over the weekend, 'She discussed it with Sherlock and they agreed that it was better for him to be open about what he was and wasn't taking, to do it the safe way than to start hiding tablets again. I was planning on discussing it with Caitlin today, now that its become a pattern.'

'And now you can discuss it with me. Sherlock needs to be sedated.'

'Why?' Sherlock asked. 'What do you think that I'm going to do?' he rubbed his forehead. He sounded tired, Clare thought, and his voice was starting to slur even on the reduced medication. It was surprising that he could function at all on the sheer number of tablets that he was on.

'Because otherwise we'll be back to square one.'

Sherlock was lying back against the pillows now, eyes closed, concentrating to continue to speak logically. 'If I take all of that medication then I sleep for eighteen or nineteen hours a day, I'm too tired to eat and I can't talk to anyone. You all keep on telling me that I have to eat, have to drink, have to talk, I can't do any of those things if I'm asleep. I'm not anxious. I don't need the pericyazine. I'll tell the nurses when I need the lorazepam, and I'll take everything else.'

'This is not a negotiation, Sherlock. Its not your decision?'

Sherlock opened his eyes and glared at him. 'Then maybe it should be. Because its my mind and my body, surely I should have some input into what happens to it.'

'You're under a section.'

'And that means that I have no choice in what happens to me? Seems a strange way to get someone well and back to a normal level of function.'

Neil Simmonds sighed. 'Very well, I'll do a deal with you. We'll put the pericyazine and half of the lorazepam on the as required side of your chart. The rest you take as prescribed. If you don't want to take anything else, you need to discuss it with Caitlin or myself before you stop taking it. Its not up to you or the nurses to make that decision.'

'And the haloperidol?'

'Stays.'

'Something is giving me the most awful headaches,' Sherlock said slowly.

'The ECT I would imagine. How long have you had them for?'

Sherlock looked at him with contempt, 'I don't, remember,' he said slowly, 'Why do you keep asking when you know that I can't remember?'

Oh God, he's going to crack, Clare thought, just when he's been doing so well. Time to step in. Getting up from her chair she went round to the other side of the bed. He looked at her in surprise. She smiled at him, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder before addressing Dr Simmonds. 'It is since the ECT, but they've got worse in the last few days, since the last session. We've been giving him paracetamol and ibuprofen, but its not helping. He could do with something stronger written up. Looking back at the nursing notes he was getting back headaches after the last round of ECT too. They lasted several weeks.'

Neil Simmonds nodded, 'Its not uncommon. It could be medication related, but its unlikely. I'll write up something codeine based. Should help.'

He looked at Sherlock who was rubbing his head, eyes closed again. 'I think thats enough for one day don't you? I'll come and see you again on Friday, Caitlin will continue the sessions in between. We'll leave CBT until next week. We've got a new psychologist, did you know?'

'I don't want to talk to anyone else,' Sherlock said wearily.

'And as I've told you before, its not your choice. If you don't cooperate then ECT remains the only option.'

'Even if I'm getting better?'

'You don't look great at the moment, do you really believe that you're getting better?'

'If you stopped zapping my head, and filling me full of drugs then I think that I would be just fine.'

'Do you.' Neil Simmonds said quietly, 'then that is worrying in itself.'

Defeated, Sherlock turned on his side, arm over his head. Clare could see tears coming from under his arm, and hoped for Sherlock's sake that they were still hidden from Dr Simmonds.

'I think thats enough,' she said quietly. 'With respect, I think that its time to let Sherlock sleep.'

'I agree, ' Dr Simmonds said, 'And I also agree with you about the ECT Sherlock, we'll call a halt for now. Its obviously done what it needed to. The delusions appear to have gone, your mood is better when you take your medication, and the memory loss and headaches are a contraindication to any more at present.'

Clare stayed with Sherlock and waited until Dr Simmonds had let himself out of the room before silently handing him a tissue.

'Bastard,' she muttered.

He looked at her in surprise, smiling despite everything. 'Did you just swear?' he asked as he wiped his face.

'That man would drive anyone to it. You okay?'

He closed his eyes for a second and then looking at her worried face said, 'I can't win, Clare. No matter what I say, what I do, I can't win with him. I don't know what he wants from me.'

Clare paused and considered. 'He's not a bad doctor, Sherlock, however it might feel, Its just that his approach isn't right for you. You don't follow the textbook protocols. James Harrison understood that, and thats why you were getting better. Dr Simmonds likes the sledgehammer approach, and you just kick against it. Thats why he wants you sedated. Keep you compliant, keep you too sleepy to think straight, to argue; but you gave him a good run for your money today, despite everything.'

'I did, didn't I? Did I rattle him? It felt as if I rattled him?'

'I would say yes, what I don't understand is how you did it. This morning you could hardly string a sentence together and then all that logical fast talking. Where did that come from.'

He considered for a long moment. 'I think its an instinct, a reflex almost. I think thats what I'm normally like when I'm well. Its a little like the way that I know that if you put a violin in my hands I could play it.' He mimed playing a violin, eyes closed, fingers dancing up and down the fingerboard. He opened his eyes and looked at Clare, 'I can play, can't I? Piano too.'

'Yes,' she nodded at him, 'You're meant to be very good. Grade seven in both this year. Your violin teacher talked about you playing professionally apparently, but your father wasn't keen.'

Sherlock turned over this new information, took a deep breath and then changing the subject said, 'So I think its like that. I knew that I had to be logical, so I pushed everything else in my head behind closed doors, and just let the reflex take over. Its as if I could switch off the filter between my brain and my mouth, and it all just comes out. Does that make sense?'

'Yes, it does.' Clare nodded. 'It sounds exactly like a reflex. It works until something gets in the way, like emotion, and then..'

'And then I fall apart,' Sherlock said quietly.'

She gave his shoulder another squeeze. 'You did well though Sherlock. He said no more ECT, you convinced him of that at least, and he's reduced some of your medication, thats something.'

He looked defeated though, lying there, eyes closed, rubbing his head again. 'I'm going to get you some painkillers for that headache,' she said, 'and some lorazepam I think. You need to sleep.'

Sherlock nodded his agreement, took the tablets and was still sleeping when Matt came back to see him at the end of his shift.

'So what now?' he asked Clare.

'I have absolutely no idea,' Clare said. 'No luck with his brother?'

'Not yet. He's out of the country apparently. I've left a message, but it could be days before I hear back from him.'


	45. Chapter 45

Three days in fact, before Matt's phone rang at 6am one day, and a crackly line with enough of a pause to suggest a satellite phone announced Mycroft Holmes. Where on earth was he?

'You needed to talk to me,' came Mycroft's clipped tones with no pre-amble.

'Where are you Mycroft?' Matt asked curiously.

'Thats irrelevant.'

'You could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me?' Matt asked, struggling to wake up.

'Matthew my time is limited. What can I do for you. Is Sherlock all right?'

'No.' Matt said shortly. 'He's in a mess, and I need your help.' Briefly he filled Mycroft in on the events of the last two weeks; Dr Harrison leaving, Viscount Holmes's visit, Dr Simmonds finding Sherlock's notes, the ECT, and his concern that Sherlock could not recover if he remained at Elmhurst.

'So what do you suggest?' Mycroft asked.

'Can you get him out of here?' Matt asked. 'We think, the nurses and I, that if you could get him home with a private nurse then he would probably do okay. Its this place, Mycroft, or rather this place under Neil Simmonds. Its not right for him. If he was under any other therapist then we could suggest a change in consultant, but Simmonds would never accept it.'

Mycroft was silent for a long time, so long in fact that Matt wondered if the line had been lost. 'Mycroft?' he asked eventually.

'I'm still here, I'm just thinking. He can't come home, Matt. It isn't safe.'

Matt considered the implications of this. 'So it is true?'

'Yes, its true. It happened, but nobody can ever know. My father has done a competent job of ensuring that all evidence has been removed, and the statements from the staff ensure that Sherlock will never be believed. He has even contacted me to ensure my silence.'

'Could you get him somewhere else, somewhere safe? To relatives somewhere, or to a different hospital?'

'Not without my fathers consent, no. He remains Sherlock's guardian, and while he is under a section it is his decision and Neil Simmonds decision as to where he be treated.' Mycroft was speaking slowly, considering.

'So what do we do?'

'What we can,' Mycroft said. 'I will do what I can. Leave it with me.' And then the line cut out and he was gone. Whether he had hang up or the line had cut out Matt was unsure. Knowing Mycroft it could be either.


	46. Chapter 46

Sherlock's days followed a pattern for the rest of the week. Wake up with several minutes of disorientation, groggy from the sleeping tablets; struggle into consciousness, then lie there trying to work out where he was and why. Remembering always came with a jolt of - not despair exactly, but a sense of disappointment, of inevitability.

Then one of the nurses would appear in his room, always Clare or Sarah these days; cheerful but talking quietly, doing everything slowly, careful not to startle him. Opening curtains, offering hime breakfast, nagging him into eating it when he showed reluctance, giving him the pot of medication, arguing with him until he took them, then persuading him into the shower, despite his protestations.

Sometimes he wondered if it wouldn't be easier just to t do as he was told, but he liked the sense of being listened to, the battle, the logic of it all.

Dressed and sitting back on his bed there would be another argument. Chair or bed. Sleep, read or walk outside. He would be quite happy to sleep for the majority of the day, as he kept telling Sarah and Clare. Wake him up for meals and therapy sessions fine, but staying awake was an effort, sleeping was easy, apart from the nightmares, and the lorazepam stopped those most of the time. It was at night that they were at their worst.

Try to read, they told him, but his concentration was so bad since the last round of ECT that he could read a page two or three times and still not be able to recall a word of it. He had tried the previous day, at Sarah's insistence and ended up flinging the book across the room in frustration. Perfectly timing it for Neil Simmond's entrance into the room, and prompting a long and circular discussion about his anger management issues.

Going outside generally needed less persuasion, but half an hour was more than enough. After that he was tired, and craving for his bed and his quiet, white room. A CD player had arrived from somewhere, following his discussion with Clare about music, but the beauty of Brahms and Beethoven was sometimes more than he could bear. Silence was easier. Silence didn't hurt.

Matt had taken him down several long white corridors to a music room as well, and shown him the piano there. An old upright, but he could only stroke its keys, lay his fingers on top of their coolness, and then asked to go back to his room without playing a note. 'Another time,' was all that he would say.

After the morning came lunch, with more cajoling into eating, then a therapy session in the afternoon with either Caitlin or Dr Simmonds, then the nurses usually allowed him to sleep, waking him for dinner, more medication and finally twelve hours of sleep disturbed only by the nightmares, then waking to the same pattern all over again.

Sarah and Clare kept talking about him going home, but he no longer saw the point. Neil Simmonds aside it was okay here. It was quiet, he was surrounded by people that he liked and trusted, they understood him. His memories of before were hazy, but he thought that people outside hadn't understood him as well. That he had been considered difficult, that just being himself hadn't been enough. He was vaguely aware that this existence was not a normal life, but the medication left him feeling hazy, disconnected, and it was all too easy to just not think about any of it.

Caitlin and Neil Simmonds kept asking him about his life before, but the truth was that he remembered little, and what he did remember he elected not to tell them. Had he always been this good at lying he wondered, or was this yet another skill that he had learnt in here? Matt he talked more to, he found him easy to talk to. But Matt was another person who talked about him leaving this place, getting back to normal.

'Why?' Sherlock asked him.

'Because you can't stay here forever.'

'Why not?'

'Because it isn't real life, Sherlock,' Matt would sigh, 'And the longer you stay here the more difficult its going to be.'

'Perhaps my real life isn't so great.'

'Then perhaps you need to change it.'

Then Sherlock would consider, and ask to go back to his room to sleep. Because thinking about his real life brought - not memories exactly, but feelings, emotions, that were best pushed back into the box, and sealed with sleep.


	47. Chapter 47

Frustrated by this turn of events, Matt, Clare and Sarah decided to have a summit meeting in the pub that evening. Arriving first, Matt found a table in the beer garden, tucked away in a corner away from prying eyes or ears, and sat there with his drink, enjoying the summer evening, wondering exactly what he had got himself into. Clare arrived next, looking relaxed after her two days off, then finally Sarah, looking slightly harassed after another long day with Sherlock. She sat down heavily, and had several sips of the glass of white wine that Clare had already procured for her before talking.

'Thanks,' she said.

'Bad day?' Clare asked.

'Frustrating day. I just don't think that we're getting anywhere. He only really wakes up to argue with Neil Simmonds, which admittedly is amusing in itself, I've never seen him outwitted by a patient before, but the rest of the time just trying to keep him awake and vertical is a challenge. Is this what he's been like with you?'

'Pretty much,' Clare said, 'And you didn't even have the benefit of Matt to help you today. He's the only one who seems to be able to get him out of himself these days.

'Is it me?' Matt asked, 'or are we horribly out of of our depth.'

'Its not just you,' Sarah said, resting her head on the table for a moment. 'I just don't see how we're ever going to bring him better like this.'

'No word from the brother?' Clare asked.

'Not since that last phone call. He's out of the country, and I'm still not sure that he'll go up against his father, and thats still the sticking point isn't it. Here we all are saying we need to get him home, but we know exactly what we would be sending him home too, but does Sherlock?'

'Why won't he read the story?' Sarah asked. 'I'm sure that at least some of his nightmares are about his father, and yet he won't even look at it. Its denial taken to the extreme.'

'I think that he remembers,' Matt said, 'He just won't admit that he remembers, and can we blame him. He has to be selective who he talks to, so its easier just to block it all out.'

'And then the nightmares come back,' Clare said, 'And round and round we go. And we can't cut his medication without Caitlin or Dr Simmonds consent, and they won't consent until he seems to be getting better, and he's not getting better because he can't stay awake long enough to do anything to make himself feel better. So what do we do?'

They sat in silence for a while, trying to think of a way forward.

'We need help,' Matt said finally . 'From someone who knows Sherlock, someone who understands the full picture.'

'James Harrison? Sarah asked. 'Matt is that fair? Do you really want to drag him into all of this?'

'He dragged me into it - remember? He's the one who told me to tell Sherlock about his father in the first place. Okay he wasn't stupid enough to tell me to get him to write it down, that was entirely my own brilliant idea, but still. I think that he'd want to know.'

'Do you have his number?'

'Should be on my phone - his home number anyway, from when he phoned me a few weeks ago, and his wife would have his mobile number if he's not there. He might even be back for the weekend by now.

James Harrison wasn't home. He was on a train on the way back from Edinburgh, but Emma who knew Matt as one of the few people from the clinic that she enjoyed talking to at social events, was happy to give him James' mobile number, which he scribbled down on a piece of paper procured from Sarah's bag.

'Is everything okay?' she asked.

'Yes fine, I just need to ask his advice about a patient.'

'Oh, that patient? The boy with the arse of a father?'

'Yes that one.'

'He'll be glad to hear from you. He hasn't stopped thinking about it since he left, He's got conspiracy theories like you wouldn't believe.'

He's not the only one, Matt thought grimly, as he thanked Emma and put the phone down.

James Harrison was startled out of his contemplation on the train by a buzzing coming from his pocket. Having finally identified it as his mobile, he found that he was remarkably unsurprised to hear Matt asking for his help.

'Is this about who I think its about?' he asked, unwilling to say the name on the train, even in the half empty compartment.

'Yes. James, things aren't going well. And we - Sarah, Clare and I are quite frankly miles out of our depth and we have absolutely no idea where we go from here.'

'I'll help if I can. Tell me whats been happening.'

Briefly Matt updated him on the events since he had left. His conversation with Sherlock, telling him the fairy story that was real, Sherlock writing down events, Neil Simmonds taking the box file, the ECT, their plan to stop any further ECT and their current concern. James Harrison listened in near silence, making just enough interjections to make it clear that he was listening, but an observer on the train had there been one, would have noticed from his body language that whatever he was hearing had left him somewhere between extreme concern and anger.

'You do realise that Neil Simmonds has broken just about every rule in the psychotherapists book by taking that box file? From a patient who is documented to have extreme trust issues anyway. How could he?'

'I don't think that he has your moral code,' Matt said succinctly. 'So what do we do?'

'I need some time to think about it. Why don't you all come round to dinner tomorrow evening. Who's with him tomorrow?'

'Clare, and I'm on a nine to five shift.'

'Fine, why don't you and Sarah come over at eight, Clare can come on at the end of her shift. Keep doing what you're doing tomorrow, but don't push him too far about his father. If he doesn't want to know then leave him be. Push him too far and he'll just crack again. What about that brother of his?'

'Trying to help, but out of the country.'

'Take him back to the music room, Matt, try to get him to play. If anything can get through to him that might. Tell him that I suggested it, if he remembers who I am. What on earth possessed Neil Simmonds to give him more ECT after last time? Does he remember anything?'

'Not much, or not much that he's admitting to anyway.'

'And thats exactly it, isn't it? Its about trust, Matt. For him its always been about trust and first Gemma Haynes and then Neil Simmonds have smashed that. My advice for tomorrow is not to push it too hard, and I'll see you tomorrow evening. See what the four of us can come up with if we put our heads together.'


	48. Chapter 48

'Food first, war cabinet meeting later,' Emma said firmly as she served up lasagna and salad to them all in the big farmhouse kitchen.

'You'll miss this place,' Sarah observed, looking round at the oak dresser and the children's pictures framed on the walls.

'Yes we will, but change is always good,' Emma said, 'I get itchy feet after a few years, we both do. Time to move on, and we'll find something equally nice in Edinburgh. We're around for a while yet though. I'm not giving notice in on my job until we've got an offer on the house, and that hasn't happened yet.'

Dinner finished, they took their drinks into the living room. Emma hesitated to join them, aware of the confidentiality issues. 'You know most of it anyway,' James said reasonably, 'and you're still a medical professional. Besides an objective opinion would be useful. We're all too involved, too emotionally invested even, in one way or another.'

The others nodded their agreement, and so Emma joined them, having stated her intent on remaining silent unless asked for her opinion.

They started by recapping events to date, from the very beginning of Sherlock's admission.

'So the problem as I see it is this,' James said,'The psychosis has gone, yes? No more voices,' there was a murmur of agreement. 'Good. And the depression is improving, at least the biological element is, but the hopelessness remains more because of what we, or rather Neil Simmonds has done to him than due to the underlying illness.

'Its hard to say if he's still depressed,' Sarah said, 'I'd say that he's just - flat, from the medication. Numb is a word that he's used. I think we've got him so medicated that he just can't feel anything anymore.'

'Which is probably exactly the way that we want him to be,' James mused. Three faces looked at him in surprise, only Emma's remained impassive.

'You're forgetting how bad he was when he came in,' he said, 'Take him off medication and he's likely to get back to exactly that. In fact we know that when he took himself off medication he did get back to almost exactly that, remember? Reduce the sedation, fine, but don't rock the boat with the rest. Get him functioning, out of hospital, stable for a few months and then will be the time to start adjusting doses, not before.'

Matt, Clare and Sarah exchanged glances, aware of how close they had come to disaster. For a split second Sarah almost felt grateful to Neil Simmonds for being so adamant that Sherlock had to keep taking all of his medication as prescribed.

'But can we get him functioning on that lot?' she asked.

'Of course. Although by the sound of it he would be better off the sleeping tablets, and on a double dose of lorazepam at night, they're more likely to stop the nightmares without leaving him unable to wake himself up. Ask him, though. You're forgetting that he's your secret weapon. Get him to talk to Caitlin or even Neil Simmonds about it.'

'What do you mean, secret weapon?' Sarah asked.

'I mean that if you three try to meddle with his medication you'll just get a knuckle-wrapping and get ignored. But if Sherlock disputes his medication they're much more likely to listen to him. Neil Simmonds already has by the sound of it, under the guise of trying to threaten him into taking them; he did listen, did change them and it did work.'

'But the point that you're all missing is this. Sherlock is bright, very bright, certainly brighter than Neil Simmonds, and when he's on form he could out think every single one of us in this room. I saw his IQ tests from school at the age of thirteen. His score was bordering on genius, and thats despite the fact that he got bored three quarters of the way through and drew what I'm informed was an incredibly accurate caricature of the examiner instead of finishing the test. Use that. Get him to argue with Neil Simmonds using logic and he will almost certainly win.'

'He already has,' Clare said. 'He argued him out of giving him any more ECT.'

'Exactly. So now give him some more ammunition. Get him reading some books on psychoanalysis - the originals Jung, Freud. In fact I'll lend him some from here. That way he can play Neil Simmonds at his own game.'

'Okay, so where does that leave us?' Matt said, squeezing the bridge of his nose as he tried to concentrate, 'We leave him on his medication but get him off some of the sedation, we give him ammunition against Neil Simmonds, we help him fight his side. Presumably we hope that the fight will give him some motivation to do something other than sleep all day - yes?'

'Exactly. How did the music session today go by the way?'

'Amazing,' Matt said, then paused for a while until he realised that the others were still waiting for him to speak, other than Clare who grinned, remembering Matt's reaction when he had brought Sherlock back to his room.

'Sorry,' he continued, 'it went really well. Its just - he's very talented. First of all he didn't want to play. Then I used a bit of reverse logic, hammed my way through a bit of grade 1 Mozart to show him how it wasn't done, then he started playing and there was no stopping him. Beethoven, Debussy, Chopin, I don't think there's much that he couldn't play, and all from memory. How does that work? He can't remember anything about his childhood or his school, and yet he can play whole sonatas out of his head.'

'Musical memory is different,' James Harrison said. 'So it helped? Good. How was he afterwards?'

'Exhausted,' Clare said, 'He came back and slept for the rest of the afternoon, but he seemed - happier I suppose this evening. More content anyway.'

'So get him playing. He plays the violin too, doesn't he? Could we get his brother to bring that?'

'His brother's another issue,' Matt admitted reluctantly, and hesitating only slightly filled the others in on the full extent of his conversations with Mycroft Holmes.

'But I'm still not sure that he'll go up against his father,' Matt said.

'Does he need to?' James Harrison asked.

'He does if we're going to get Sherlock out of Elmhurst.'

'And do we necessarily need to do that?'

James chuckled despite himself at Matt's expression.

'Matt, you're making the beginners mistake of psychotherapy. You're assuming that you know what the patient wants or needs. You don't. The only person who knows what Sherlock wants and needs is Sherlock. You just need to give him the tool kit to make those decisions for himself.'

'But he doesn't want to make any decisions for himself,' Clare interjected. 'Even getting him to get washed and dressed, to eat is an effort. He just wants to sleep.'

'But that is a decision in itself. Put yourself in Sherlock's position. Sleep is easy, everything else requires effort and argument. He's tired. He's been through more in the last few months than many people go through in a lifetime. He's been pumped full of drugs which must be giving him a wonderful catalogue of side effects, and physically he wasn't in the best shape to start with, and thats without adding in the effects of numerous general anesthetics. He needs to sleep, and personally I wouldn't try to stop him. What I would do is to cut down the sedation, including the haloperidol, so that he only sleeps when he needs to. If he's sleeping to escape reality then thats a different question, but its one that needs to be addressed with him. Stop assuming, and then you'll work out whats right for him, or rather you'll help him to work it out.'

Matt looked more confused than ever. 'But who's going to address it with him? He's not really connecting with Caitlin, partly I think because he cant talk about his father with her. I've sat in on sessions. He cooperates on the surface, but he says as little as he thinks that he can get away with, and you're right. Even like this he can run rings around her intellectually.'

'You could talk to him about it, if he'll let you.'

'But I'm not trained.'

'No, but you've sat in on enough sessions to know how it goes, and you've done therapy yourself, which is also a pre-requisite. Besides I'm not talking about full psychotherapy. All you need to do is get him talking and he will do the rest. I'd be happy to supervise, talk to you on the phone before and after each session if needs be, give you some direction.'

Matt considered, 'I could do, I suppose. He does talk to me more than to anyone else. But what about his other therapy sessions. Shall I try and sit on those too? See if I can pick anything up?'

'If they'll let you that would be an excellent idea. That way you can work with Caitlin, not against her.'

'And Simmonds?'

'I doubt that he'd let you sit in on those, but if you can to do some damage limitation then that would be great.'

Matt looked at Sarah and Clare to see what they thought. They were both nodding enthusiastically. 'Sounds like a good idea to me,' Sarah said, 'At least he talks to you, without feeling as if he has to filter the information. I say we talk to him about it, see what he thinks.'

James Harrison smiled at her, 'And that is exactly the point. Talk to him, put him back in control, because that has always, always been one of the main issues for him; partly because of what has happened to him, and partly because of whatever degree of autistic traits he has. Control has been stripped from him time and time again in Elmhurst. You need to help him to get it back.

'But thats just it,' Sarah interjected. 'Nothings under his control. Its all under Neil Simmonds control as he's so fond of reminding Sherlock.'

'So get him taken off the section.'

The other three looked at each other stunned. Why had this never occurred to them?

'Just like that?' Matt asked. 'How?'

'You know how. Who can take a patient off a section?'

'The responsible clinician, an appeal process, or the Mental Health Managers,' Matt reeled off, remembering his course of the previous week.

Exactly. And who is is his responsible clinician.'

'His consultant' Sarah said, confused, then 'Oh, of course.'

'What? ' Clare asked, still not able to work it out.

'She means,' said James Harrison, 'that unless Neil Simmonds has had the paperwork changed, as the consultant in charge of Sherlock's case at the time of his section, I'm still the responsible clinician, which means...'

'That you can take him off the section,' Matt finished, 'thats brilliant. But won't they just resection him?'

James Harrison shook his head. 'Not if I provide a psychiatric report that states that he is no longer a risk to himself or others, backed up by nursing reports. It would have to be genuine, I would have to see him, but a social visit to an old patient would be reasonable I think. I can discuss it with him then.'

Sarah was watching James Harrison closely. 'Feeling guilty?' she asked quietly.

He looked up and smiled at her. 'I'd forgotten how perceptive you could be, Sarah. Yes, a little.' He sighed. 'Lets just say that I don't think that the timing of my job offer was entirely coincidental. I'm not saying that it was fixed exactly, but I certainly got a much more glowing recommendation than I would have otherwise, including a large hint that I could be freed up for almost immediate transfer. I was so delighted about getting the job that I didn't fully consider the implications of it. I should have stayed for a couple of months at least, got Sherlock home. So yes, I'm feeling guilty, and I would like the opportunity to set things straight. I'm not suggesting that we take him off the section yet, but if and when we think that he's ready to go home, if Neil Simmonds keeps putting barriers in the way, then thats the time to act. But I suspect that for him just knowing that the section could be lifted would help.'

'Sounds like a plan, Matt said, 'but there's still one more issue. He won't talk about his father, not at all. I've offered to show him his account of what happened, but he just doesn't want to know.'

'Of course he doesn't. Its painful, and he's being told not to talk about it. The easiest way not to talk about it is not to know about it. He can't cope with anything else at the moment. Shut it out, keep it in the box, pretend that it doesn't exist. Its a coping mechanism.'

'But doesn't he need to talk about it?'

'Eventually, yes. Because otherwise it will come out in other ways, just as it is in the nightmares, but after everything that has happened it has to be at a time when he's ready to deal with it. Are the nightmares still the same?'

'I think so,' Clare said, 'although he's also dreaming about his mother's death in the car crash, and thats the only one that he will discuss with Caitlin and Neil Simmonds. He told me that he's still dreaming of being chased.'

James Harrison sighed. 'So we're back to square one with that, thanks to Neil Simmonds excellent treatment plan. Lets think about this logically,' he paused and sat for a moment, considering, rubbing his temples with his hands.

'Matt, whats the worst thing that you can do to a person who discloses abuse to you?' he said finally.

'Not believe them,' Matt replied promptly, then 'Oh, I see.'

'Exactly. And thats what has happened to Sherlock, time and time again. He tried to tells a teacher at school, yes? It was investigated, disproved and he was punished for it. Then here the same thing again, more than once. He discusses it with me and his father turns up, says goodness knows what to him, and he is branded delusional by Neil Simmonds, and even those of us who know him best expressed doubts. Then he finally writes it down, believes it, knows it, finds some kind of peace with it, and Neil Simmonds again smashes that, breaks his trust and rewards him with ECT. Its a learned response. Not only did the abuse itself come with physical pain, we have now compounded that with mental pain associated with the memory of even talking about it. Of course he doesn't want to discuss it anymore. He doesn't want to know about it. He wants to believe that it was a delusion, a lie, but if at least some of the memories haven't returned then I would be extremely surprised.'

'So what do we do?' Matt asked.

'You can't push it Matt, thats the one thing that you shouldn't do. My old supervisor used to say that Therapy is like a room with elastic walls. You push until you meet resistance, keep the pressure up for a few minutes, then back off and try again another time, when the patient is ready. Eventually the walls will give and you will make the room a little bigger, a little brighter. If you keep pushing against resistance then you'll just punch a hole in those walls. Thats what has happened to Sherlock. Twice he's had people push too far; Gemma Haynes and then Neil Simmonds. Both have damaged him. It might be months or even years before he's ready to talk about it now. But the question is does he know the truth?'

'I don't think that he knows what to believe,' Clare said quietly, 'from things that he's said to me, I would say that he's trying to pretend that its not real, but at the same time he's scared that it is.'

'Has he talked to you about it at all?' The others looked surprised. Clare's relationship with Sherlock had always been gentler, more maternal almost than theirs, but it seemed that she had got more out of him than they had.

She shook her head. 'Not exactly, but I've woken him from nightmares in the morning a few times, and he's said almost exactly that, that he doesn't want it to be real.'

'So,' James Harrison said, 'how do we let him know that its true? Because even if he isn't ready to talk about it, it would be unsafe to let him return home without all of the facts. We're not going to get him to read his story by the sound of it, and even if he did I doubt that it would convince him. As I see it there are only two people who could do that. His father is absolutely not an option, but his brother would know, must know. Would he tell him the truth, all of it? Matt you know him, what do you think.'

Matt shook his head. 'I don't think that he'll go up against his father. He does care and he is trying to help in his own way, I think, but he's too afraid of his father himself to stand up to him.'

'Then I think a little persuasion might be in order. We need to talk to Sherlock, see what he is happy for us to do, but I do have a plan that might help.'

They talked for hours, beating out the details of the plan, and then the talk turned to the wider issues surrounding Elmhurst. James was saddened but not entirely surprised to hear that Sarah intended to leave, and offered to make enquiries for her about jobs in Scotland, closer to her parents in Cumbria anyway than London.

'Can we do anything about Simmonds?' Matt asked.

'You mean report him?' James Harrison asked, 'But for what? While we not agree with his methods, on paper everything that he does is justified, if a little heavy handed. What we need is a complaint from a patient or their relatives, or better still several complaints. Sherlock is unlikely to make that complaint until he's out of Simmond's hands, and without any firm proof of negligence or inappropriate treatment it would be difficult to make anything stick. I suspect that young Mr Holmes may have his own thoughts on that one when he's a little more with it, but my advice would be to watch and wait until then. But if he does anything that really worries you then phone me, any of you, and let me know. I'm not going to abandon Sherlock to his care again. I want to see this through. Get him well, get him home.'

Sarah reluctantly left a little after half eleven, all too aware that she was back on duty in a few short hours, relieved that they finally had a plan and better still had James Harrison back on board. It felt safer, a little less as if they were floundering in the dark, risking doing harm by trying to do their best, but still wondering, despite everything how this was ever going to end well.


	49. Chapter 49

Sarah came on shift the next morning to find a very subdued Sherlock. Quiet, almost silent, and already awake and reading when she walked into his room after handover at eight.

'You okay?' she asked, frowning.

'Not sure yet,' he said, still reading, then looking up from his book, 'Why?'

'You're very quiet.'

'I'm often quiet,' he said, reading again.

'You haven't touched your breakfast.'

'No I haven't, have I?' he said, sounding distracted. 'I don't think that today is going to be a food day.'

'And you haven't turned a page on that book since I walked in here, which given the rate you normally read at is unusual in itself. So why don't you put that book down and talk to me?'

Sighing he complied and looked at her in that direct way that he had, the way that she knew was designed to make people feel slightly uncomfortable. It didn't work. 'I don't think that today is going to be a talking day either,' he said slowly.

'Every day is a talking day,' she said, pulling up a chair next to the bed. `So whats up?'

'Nothing is up, I'm fine.'

'No, you're not. You were okay yesterday, so either today is just a down day or more likely something has happened to make you like this. Since you've been asleep, I would guess more nightmares, although nobody said anything in report, so I presume that you couldn't wake yourself up. Am I right?'

'Something's happened to make me like what?'

'Oh I don't know - defensive, withdrawn,' she paused, 'avoiding the question.'

'Maybe I don't want to talk about it.'

'And maybe this is one of the times that you need to. Tell me about the nightmares.'

'Its the same, always the same,' he frowned and looked down at the book lying on the bed. 'I'm being chased through a wood. I can feel the monster behind me, so close, close enought to smell it and its claws keep catching me as I run, and no matter how hard I run now, it always catches me.'

'And what happens then?'

'I try to wake up, but I can't, and then, and then...'

He broke off, his voice shaking. Sarah squeezed his hand, but stayed silent, knowing that he needed to get the words out.

'And then its clawing at me, biting at me, attacking me, and I can't wake up, and I can't get away.'

Sarah nodded, then after a short silence asked, 'Is it your father.'

He nodded, then sat forward, knees drawn up, burying his face in his arms. Sarah rested a hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she was there.

When he finally sat up, wiping his eyes she asked, 'Why won't you talk about it, Sherlock? Its not going to get better until you talk about it.'

'Because its not real. I know that its not real.'

'Then why are you dreaming about it?'

'I don't know.' Then suddenly he said, 'Can I go to the music room this morning, now even? I need to get these pictures out of my head and thats the only way I can think of to do it.'

'Of course, or I can get you some lorazepam and you can sleep.'

He shook his head, 'No, sleep doesn't help. When I sleep the nightmares come. I can't cope with anymore of those, not at the moment.'

So Sarah took him to the music room, making a mental note to ensure that he wasn't given any more sleeping tablets if this was the effect that they had on him, and sat there as he played piece after piece. Then when he had played everything that he knew from memory he sat and worked through a new piece of Beethoven from the sheet music that he had found in the piano stool. It was nearly two hours before he finally stopped playing and closed the lid on the piano.

'Better?' she asked.

'Yes, much.'

'You play beautifully,' she told him as she walked him back to his room. 'I don't know much about these things, but I would say that you could play professionally.'

He shook his head, 'I wouldn't want to. I play for myself, not for anybody else.'

'So what do you want to do when you leave school?'

He shrugged. 'I don't know,' he said. 'To be honest, I can't see my way out of here, let alone anything else.'

Sarah chose her words carefully. 'Do you want to go home?' she asked finally.

'I don't know,' he said softly. 'It all seems so disconnected now. I don't really know what I want.'

And then he lapsed back into silence, and retreated back to his bed with a book, which he turned a few more pages on this time before he fell asleep.


	50. Chapter 50

He woke several hours of dreamless sleep later to find a lunch tray on the table by his bed. Still warm, but even the smell of it made him feel ill. He hastily replaced the cover on the plate and pushed it away, as Sarah walked into the room.

'Its connected you know,' she said lightly.

'Whats connected?'

'The nightmares about your father and you not wanting to eat.'

'You sound like Matt.'

'Why? What does he say?'

'He's got a theory that mealtimes at home were difficult, that they involved conflict and that my issues around eating are tied up with my feelings about my father.'

'Were they difficult? Mealtimes I mean?' Sarah asked curiously, intrigued that he was talking about his father freely at last.

'I don't know do I? I can't remember. Wonderful isn't it? The very thing that was meant to make me better, the ECT, has made me lose all the memories that are meant to be associated with my illness, so that I can't even remember them enough to talk about them. And you wonder why I can't see my way to getting better.'

'You are better,' Sarah said gently, 'maybe not a hundred percent yet, but much, much better than you have been.'

'Am I?'

'Yes you are,' Sarah said, before leaving the room to get him a milkshake which she knew from experience it would take half an hour of argument to get him to drink. If she had ever had a more challenging patient she couldn't remember it. Three months and counting. Thank goodness James Harrison was back on board. If he couldn't get Sherlock Holmes functioning again then nobody could.

James Harrison arrived a little after two. Ringing the buzzer on the door of the unit, he felt oddly bereft without the swipe card which he had handed in when he had left.

Sarah grinned broadly as she went to let him in. 'I can honestly say that I've never been so glad to see you,' she said.

'How is he?'

'Subdued, frustrated, a little scared although he won't admit it. He's talked about his father a bit today for the first time since all of this blew up, which has helped, I think. But the real problem is that he can't see his way out of this.'

'He's giving up again, then.'

'I would say so. He'll be glad to see you though.'

Knocking on the door to announce their arrival, she buzzed herself into Sherlock's room. 'I've got a visitor for you,' she said, before standing back to let him in. Sherlock looked up from his book in surprise, then put it down, trying to place him. Tall, mid to late forties, dark hair greying at the side, Scottish accent. He looked familiar, and with an effort he tried to kickstart the cogs in his head into action to retrieve the memories.

'Hello, Sherlock,' the man said. 'Do you remember me?'

Sherlock shook the proffered hand, memories triggering as he did so. 'Yes,' he said, sounding relieved. 'You're the psychiatrist, the one that I liked, but I can't remember your name.'

'James Harrison.'

'Of course, sorry,' Sherlock rubbed his forehead, 'my memory isn't great.'

'And you're still getting the headaches?'

'Yes. Did I have them before?'

'They were bad for several weeks last time round. Do you mind if I sit down?'

Sherlock shook his head and indicated the chair with his hand, realising that it was the first time in weeks that anyone had asked his permission to do anything. Usually he was being told, not asked.

'Why are you here?' he asked bluntly, 'I mean, I thought that you had left.'

'I did leave and thats exactly the problem. Sherlock,' James Harrison hesitated slightly before slowly saying, 'I owe you an apology, I think. When I left you were getting better, we were planning for you to go home. I had absolutely no idea that Neil Simmonds was going to do what he did, that he would betray your trust like that, or that he would give you more ECT. Had I known what he was planning, I would have tried to stop it, but its a little late for that, so I can only apologise.'

He maintained eye contact with Sherlock throughout. Honest, direct, almost the polar opposite of Neil Simmonds who Sherlock was beginning to despise. Sherlock had trusted this man, he remembered, trusted him more than anyone else in here, and he had made him feel - not just better, but safer. As if he not only understood what was going on inside his head, but could help him to filter and untangle it.

'It wasn't your fault. You didn't know.' he said finally. He sounded tired, James thought, almost defeated as Sarah had said

'No, but I probably should have stayed around long enough to get you home,' he continues, 'knowing what had happened with your father, knowing about Neil Simmond's acquaintance with him. I think that some extent I let you down, and I would like the opportunity to reduce the impact of that.'

This was unexpected. 'How?' he asked

'This isn't entirely a social visit.' James Harrison explained. I spend yesterday evening with some friends of yours from here. They've filled me in on events, and have asked for my advice about how to get you well and get you home. I would like to help with that, if you'll let me.'

'I don't have friends,' Sherlock replied automatically.

'Don't you? Well you certainly engender amazing loyalty from your acquaintances then. Is that how you would describe them?'

'I don't know how I would describe them.' Sherlock was pleating the sheet next to him, unsure how to respond to this.

James Harrison sat back and took a deep breath, taking himself out of the therapist mode which came so automatically to him. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock,' he said after a pause, 'I'm not here to make you feel uncomfortable. This isn't meant to be a therapy session, unless of course you want it to be.

'What do you mean?'

James Harrison smiled at the slight figure on the bed. He had forgotten how this went. The distrust, the suspicion, and yet at the same time the endearing vulnerability. Pushing people away, but needing them all the same.'

'I am offering, Sherlock, to be your therapist again, if that is what you wish. It would have to be unofficially, while you are in here at least, but I will be back most weekend for the duration of your stay here, and for some time after you get home. Neil Simmonds will still have to be nominally in charge of your care, and it goes without saying that he can't be aware of my visits

'Why?' the suspicion again. 'Why would you want to do that?'

James Harrison smiled at him, 'Because I don't like leaving a job unfinished, and because I would like a chance to prove to you that there are people who you can trust, people who can help, and who have your best interests at heart. And because I believe that you have the potential to do a great deal of good with your life, but I am all too aware that the experiences that you have had, if not properly dealt with could push you in the opposite direction. We all have choices in life, some we make ourselves and some are made for us. I would like to make sure that those decisions that are made for you are the right ones.

Sherlock looked puzzled and considered for a moment. 'You're trying to tell me that you're doing this so that I don't turn into some kind of criminal mastermind? Thats crazy.'

James Harrison laughed. 'Not exactly,' he said, 'but I would like to think that you will use that powerful brain of yours for the right purposes eventually.'

'Instead of turning into a psychopath,' Sherlock said flatly.

Still depressed then, James Harrison thought, still interpreting the negative in any situation. 'We've had this conversation before,' he said gently. 'I don't think that you're a pscyhopath. I've never thought that. '

'Neil Simmonds thinks that I'm a psychopath, although he doesn't say it. Or possible a sociopath, that word seems to come up a lot.'

'Does that bother you?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'A little.'

'And that yet again proves why he is so very wrong, as I've said before psychopaths don't care what people think about them, you do. Neil Simmonds is much too interested in labels in my opinion, and not interested enough in the individual.'

Sherlock was staring hard at the sheet, picking at invisible threads on it. 'Can you help?' he asked without looking up, frowning a little as if even asking was painful.

'If you want me to then yes, I believe that you can.'

'Because my head, 'its just a mess. I think that it was like this before. I think that you helped.'

'I think that I did too. Can you define mess?'

Sherlock frowned. 'Everything is tangled, since the ECT. I can't work out whats real. I don't know which are real memories, which are from my nightmares, and what my head has just invented.'

'Do you want me to tell you?'

Sherlock looked up. He looked - worried, scared almost. 'No,' he said, 'thats just the problem. You could tell me, but how do I know that what you believe is the truth? And even if I know now, I might forget it all again later. I want to write it down. Sarah says that helped before, but I can't.'

'Because you don't want Neil Simmonds to see it.'

'Exactly,' Sherlock said quietly.

'This tangle, is it about your father?'

'Partly.'

'Then I have an idea. If your brother told you what had happened, could you believe it then?'

'Probably but he won't, at least I don't think that he would. He wouldn't before. I remember that. He came and he talked in riddles, it just made it worse.'

'What if we could persuade him to come here and tell you the truth?'

'How?'

'By asking, Sherlock. Because I honestly believe that is all that it will take.'

James Harrison stayed for an hour and a half in the end, leaving only regretfully because he had a train to catch back to Edinburgh that evening. He could have kept Sherlock talking longer, he thought. It was the easiest session that he had ever had with him. Exhausted, defeated, the barriers were finally down. He seemed relieved to be able to talk to somebody without filters, knowing that nothing of their conversation would end up in his medical notes, or be fed back to Dr Simmonds or Caitlin. James would still keep notes, of course, a log of the conversation to refer to before subsequent sessions, but they would only be seen by him. Sessions with other people, people that he didn't connect with had made Sherlock grateful for the chance to talk to him. Idly on the train on the way back to Edinburgh that evening he wondered if that was something that could be used. Give patients a few sessions with a therapist who they found it difficult to connect with, to make them appreciate the connection that they had with the one who was likely to help them. It was an interesting theory, although ethically challenging.

Walking to the door with Sarah immediately after the session, he had given her some quick feedback. 'You need to get him off the sleeping tablets, they're just making things worse. I would give him lorazepam and nothing else tonight, and explain to Caitlin in the morning, get her to change his drug chart.'

'Other than that he's still low, although I've seen him worse, and he's still paranoid, but he's trying hard to hide it. The problem is that in some ways his paranoia is correct. Can you talk to Caitlin about that one? Get her to put up his olanzapine?'

'I can try. I just don't want to risk making them think that he needs any more ECT.'

'I suspect that Neil Simmonds has learnt his lesson on that one. But I agree with what you were all saying last night, we need to get him functioning and out of here as quickly as possible. He's becoming too dependent on this place, and he's losing any idea of a normal life. Matt's not on today is he?'

Sarah shook her head, 'No, day off.'

'Pity, I'll give him a ring from the train. I've got a favour to ask him. From Sherlock.'


	51. Chapter 51

Returning to his flat that Thursday evening, Mycroft picked up the pile of letters off his hall table with a sigh. He hated leaving a job unfinished, but family was family after all.

The first letter was an A4 sized brown envelope. Opening it, he withdrew a sheaf of papers with a note on the top written in pencil on lined paper, in his brother's careful handwriting. It said simply, 'Bring my violin when you come.' Underneath was a sheaf of papers in the same handwriting, again in pencil, taken from the same A4 pad. Abandoning his other mail, Mycroft took it over to the armchair in the living room. A story by the look of it. It began, 'Once upon a time there was a boy called Sherlock.'

'You came,' Sherlock said, without looking up from his book as the door clicked shut at a little after two o'clock the next afternoon.

'Of course I came,' Mycroft said. 'I would have come before, but I've been out of the country.'

'Did you bring the violin?'

'If you put down your book long enough to talk to me then I'll tell you.'

Sherlock reluctantly put down his book to meet his brother's disapproving gaze, and sat up from where he had been sprawled on the bed. 'Did you?'

'Yes. I've given it to the nurses. They offered to put it in the music room. I pointed out how much it was worth, they went a little pale and put it in their valuables cupboard instead. You just have to ask for it when you want it and they'll take it to the music room for you.'

'Thank you.' Sherlock said quietly.

'Why did you send it to me, Sherlock?'

'You know why.'

'You're asking me to choose sides.'

'No,' Sherlock shook his head, 'I'm asking you to tell me the truth.'

'So I understand. I had a phone call this morning from James Harrison, who I understand is no longer employed here, but was keen to fill me in on recent events.'

Sherlock looked away, narrowing his eyes slightly, 'Did you know?' he asked, 'what they did to me?'

'You are referring to the ECT I presume? No, I didn't know. I was unaware of our father's last visit or anything that happened subsequent to that. I was out of the country I told you.'

'Middle East?'

'I can't tell you, you know that. Besides its irrelevant.'

'Well you've obviously been somewhere where the food is significantly less good than at your club, judging by your shrinking waistline, and if you don't want people to know where you've been then you had better get rid of that thing in your eye, the one that you get from irritation by sand. Its a complete give away. I sure your bosses know a chap on Harley Street who could remove the evidence for you.'

'Good to see that brain of yours is still functioning. I was informed that you had lost your memory again.'

'And yet I seem to have retained the most useless pieces of information.' Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at his brother.

'You're changing the subject, Sherlock,' Mycroft said calmly.

'Maybe. So would you have stopped them, if you'd known what they were doing to me? Even if it meant going up against our father?'

It was Mycroft's turn to narrow his eyes and consider. 'I would have tried to talk our father out of his course of action, yes, but as we are both aware I would almost certainly failed.'

'So why are you here?'

'I told you, I brought your violin.'

'And the truth?'

'If you wish, yes.'

'Why?'

Mycroft sighed, exasperated by his little brother as always. 'Sherlock you wrote to me, remember?'

'When did you get back? Last night?'

'Yes.'

'So what have you been doing all morning? Not work, looking at what you're wearing. Where have you been? Have you been to check with Father what you can tell me?'

'Sherlock, will you stop this!'

Sarah slipped quietly into the room, alerted by Mycroft's raised voice, and stifled a smile at the sight of Sherlock, cross-legged and impassive on the bed, while his older brother was obviously being successfully antagonised. Stopping the haloperidol had done wonders for Sherlock's ability to argue, as both she and Clare had discovered to their peril.

'Everything okay?' she asked.

'Fine,' Sherlock said, as Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

Sarah picked up on the unspoken message. 'Sherlock, your brother is here to help, 'she said, 'so why don't you let him?'

'Is he here to help?' Sherlock asked, not taking his eyes off Mycroft. 'How can I be sure?'

'Stop it.' Sarah said bluntly.

'Stop what?' Sherlock asked looking at her innocently.

'Stop using attack as a defence, and stop trying to steer the conversation away from what you don't want to talk about. If you're not ready to hear this then fine, but at least be honest about it - to your brother and to yourself.'

Sherlock looked down at his hands, interweaving themselves as if beyond his control in his lap. Mycroft looked at Sarah appraisingly, impressed despite himself at seeing his brother so effectively and yet affectionately chastised.

'Thank you - Sarah is it? Why don't you stay and see if you can continue to persuade my brother to act like a rational human being.'

'Sherlock?'

'Thats fine, stay,' he mumbled, then looked up and gave her a weak smile. 'Sorry. I'm just-'

'Finding this difficult?' Sarah finished the sentence for him. 'Of course you are, thats fine, but as I said, be honest about it. Making your brother angry enough to leave without telling you anything is not going to help anything.' She pulled up a chair and sat down on the opposite side of the bed to Mycroft. 'How far have you got?'

'Sherlock has so far established that I returned from abroad last night, where I have been for the last few weeks, and what I have spent my morning doing,' Mycroft said sarcastically. 'He has not, however, allowed me to tell him anything about the reason that I am here.'

'Do you want to know?' Sarah asked Sherlock.

'No, ' he shook his head, still looking down at his lap, 'but I need to know. Is it true? The story?'

'Yes, its true.'

Sarah realised that she had been unconsciously holding her breath, and looking at Sherlock saw his shoulders drop, eyes closed for a few seconds. Relief, she thought, thats what he's feeling. Relief that he wasn't going mad again. That it was real, because he does remember.

'All of it?' Sherlock asked.

'Everything in the story that you sent me, yes. Do you want me to tell you?'

'Yes, I do.'

Impulsively, Sarah reached for his hand and squeezed it. He didn't pull away, grateful for the comfort, but something kept him from looking up, and he kept his eyes fixed on the bed, tracing patterns on the sheet with one hand, while he kept tight hold of Sarah's with the other. And Mycroft told him. All of it. From the beginning. Unemotionally, but not uncaringly. And it hurt, but at the same time, it felt good, it felt right.

When he had finished, he very quietly said 'Thank you,' and let go of Sarah's hand. His eyes remained firmly fixed on the bed.

'For what it is worth, Sherlock, I am truly sorry.' Mycroft said. 'I should have tried to stop him. But he was my father, and I told myself that interfering would only make it worse. That was wrong, and for that I am sorry.'

Sherlock nodded, silently.

'This is probably the wrong time to tell you this, but the reason that I'm back is because our father is in hospital.'

Sherlock looked up at him sharply, now this he hadn't expected.

'Stroke,' Mycroft continued, 'Not a catastrophic one, but bad enough to keep him in hospital for a while, and fortunately bad enough to divert his attention away from you.'

'I don't want to see him,' Sherlock mumbled, 'Not now, not ever. Can I do that?' He looked at Sarah.

'In theory yes,' she said, 'Even if you don't want to report what happened, you're sixteen. You have the right to decide where you want to live and who you want to see.'

'But he's still my guardian, he still has parental responsibility.'

'Yes, but you still have the right to make your own decisions, and I suspect that he wouldn't go against that with the implied threat of you telling social services why you are making them. Mycroft, what do you think?'

'I think,' Miss Thompson, this with a quick flick to Sarah's name badge. He was obviously a man who felt more comfortable with surnames, 'that you have obviously never met my father if you think that he would be so easily manipulated. Persuasion may however work better than threat, and I believe that I may be able to persuade my father that should he choose to arrange to stay away from Sherlock as much as possible, then memories of past events are less likely to be triggered. However, you have to consider, Sherlock, exactly how likely it is that the social workers and more to the point Dr Simmonds are to allow you to be discharged anywhere other than our family home. Unless of course you disclose past events to them, a course of action which I strongly advise against.'

'So what do you suggest?' Sarah asked.

'I suggest that you both believe me when I say that I will guarantee Sherlock's safety when he leaves here. I will attempt to ensure that he and my father are not residing in the same building at any time. I will however need a few weeks to put such plans in place.'

'Sherlock won't be ready to leave here before that anyway,' Sarah said, registering as she did so Sherlock's look of relief that he would not have to face the outside world in the immediate future. 'But I think that we should think about at least planning for discharge, get the section lifted, start working out what will happen when you leave here.'

'And am I correct in saying that Neil Simmonds may be problematic in that regards?' Mycroft asked Sarah.

'Potentially, yes. I would suggest that you ask for a discharge meeting with him. Preferably while your father is still in hospital, enabling you to attend as the family representative. That way we can all sit round a table and discuss plans.'

'When you say all, you are forgetting that James Harrison, who seems to have the best insight into my brothers case, would not presumably be able to be present.'

'No,' Sarah said, 'But I can get his input immediately before the meeting and feed it back as my own opinion. It won't carry as much weight, but its probably the best that we can hope for.'

Walking Mycroft out ten minutes later, Sarah said carefully, 'A mild stroke wouldn't keep your father in hospital for more than a few days. Its not mild, is it?'

He looked at her sharply, 'No, it isn't,' he said, 'subarachnoid haemorrhage. They're going to clip the aneurysm in a few days. I thought it best not to let Sherlock know how serious it was.'

'He needs people to be honest with him, thats the only way he's going to learn to trust what he's told.'

'Then you have my permission to tell him.'

'Thank you.'

'Miss Thompson, an observation. You seem very fond of my brother.'

'In a purely professional capacity, yes. He reminds me of my own brother, and he has had a very difficult time. I would like to see him get well, get back to a normal life.'

Mycroft looked into the distance, 'And do you truly believe that that is possible? After all that has happened here?'

'With the right support, absolutely?' Sarah snapped, defensively she realised. A show of emotion not lost of Mycroft.

'And would you be happy to provide that support?' Mycroft asked quietly as they approached the door to the unit.'

'I'm sorry, I don't understand what you are asking.'

'I am making you a job offer, Miss Thompson. As private nurse to my brother on his discharge. You manage him well, very well, better than anyone else I have met, to be frank. I would like you to accompany him home on his discharge, as nurse initially and then as a companion. I will endeavor to be in the house as much as possible for the first few weeks after his discharge home, but I cannot expect my employers to be so understanding indefinitely. Sherlock will need someone to stay with him, someone who understands his complexities and can advise about his care. You, I think, would be the ideal candidate.'

'I don't know what to say,' Sarah said.

'Say that you will at least consider it, for Sherlock's sake if not your own. He will need allies when he returns home, people who genuinely have his best interest at heart, and such people are few and far between, as you have no doubt realised. Suffice to say that I will ensure that I financially it is to your benefit.' Mycroft handed her his card. 'Let me know when you have made a decision.'


	52. Chapter 52

At the team meeting on Monday, Sarah deliberately omitted details of Mycroft's visit, stating only that Sherlock's brother had visited, and that it had seemed to help. She mentioned plans for discharge, but Neil Simmonds predictably remained reluctant.

'I'll discuss it with his father again,' he said, 'but I don't think that he's ready to go home yet. His mood is still too labile, and there is the risk of another episode of paranoia if he is discharged too early.'

'Every episode of paranoia has had a trigger,' Sarah said calmly, 'and his brother is talking about employing a private psychiatric nurse for when he goes home, to get him through the first few months. If he goes home and it doesn't work out he can always be readmitted, but shouldn't we at least be trying?'

'I'll organise a discharge planning meeting with his family,' Neil Simmonds said, 'then we can take it from there.'

Sarah thought about telling him about Viscount Holmes' stroke and decided against. Better to let him find out for himself. At least this way Mycroft would hopefully be involved in planning for discharge rather than Sherlock's father, which would be better for all of them.

Sherlock had been quieter, calmer that morning. Still sleeping when she started her shift, the night staff reported that he had had a quiet night, and when he did wake up he told her that the lorazepam had worked well; no nightmares. He had even eaten breakfast without being bullied, and she had left him reading a book on Freud which James Harrison had left for him.

Later that afternoon, a tall, skinny young man in his late twenties, earnest and serious with tortoiseshell glasses knocked at the door to Sherlock's room. The new psychologist. 'Give him a chance,' Sarah told Sherlock, as she stood back to let him in.

Surprisingly, Sherlock found that he quite liked him. He listened more than he talked, seemed to take all of Sherlock's theories, even the more madcap ones seriously, but then helped him to work them through to realise the holes if not in his logic, then at least in his cognitive processing. It was making Sherlock realise how much had been damaged by the ECT. Better still the psychologist, Dominic as he told Sherlock to call him, had had experience of working with people with profound memory loss from ECT in the past, and had given Sherlock some ways to rebuild his memory stacks and to try to refill them. 'Think of it like a house,' he told him, 'you can file things in different rooms, in different shelves in different rooms. You remember everything anyway, thats how the human brain works, the problem is remembering where you put it all and being able to recall it.'

Sherlock told him about the room inside his head, the corridor, and the doors that he pushed painful memories behind.

'Then thats half your problem,' Dominic told him. 'You're just filing things anywhere. You need to create some order in there,' he tapped his own head. 'Pull it all out, one room at a time, a sort of mental housekeeping. You need to pull it out, organise it, and put it back where you can find it. If there are things that are too hard to think about at the moment then fine, put them all in one place, a mental cupboard or box, but at least then you know where they are when you need to find them. Keep the rest of the doors in your house open. You're blocking off memories, I think, without realising it. Leave the mental doors open and they will start to come back.

Sherlock discovered that he was right. It was a slow, painful process. Sarah found him later that day, frowning and concentrating hard on a series of swirls that he was drawing on the piece of paper in front of him.

'You okay?' she asked, then when he failed to respond rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, making him jump.

'Sorry,' she said, 'you were miles away.

'I was thinking,' he said with a frown, 'organising my memories, Dominic suggested it.'

'Is it helping?'

'A bit. I remember Simmonds finding my box file now, thats new, and bits after I was admitted, only after the first lot of ECT though, I can't remember much before that.'

'But you're still not writing things down.'

He shook his head. 'I can't. Not after last time. I don't want to risk anyone reading it, especially not Simmonds.'

They were interrupted by a the buzz and click of the door. 'You could knock you know.' Sherlock snapped in irritation.

Neil Simmonds raised an eyebrow. 'I am the director of the hospital, Sherlock, I don't have to knock.'

'But its my room. Everyone else knocks, apart from the nurse, and they don't just march in. They stick their head round the door to see if I'm awake and then let me know that they're there if I am.'

'Do you want me to ask your permission to come into your room as well?'

'Preferably, yes. It would be polite.'

'I think we need to up your medication,' Neil Simmonds said after a moments consideration.

'What? Why? Because I asked you to knock?' Sherlock asked with a derogatory snort. He really, really didn't like this man.

'Because irritation and anger can be a sign of impending hypomania.'

'And irritation and anger towards one person is more likely to be a sign that I find them both irritating and annoying, wouldn't you agree?' He turned to Sarah. 'Sarah, how would you describe my mood today?'

'I would say that you've been very calm and fairly positive.' she said, trying not to smile.

'And have I shown any degree of irritation or annoyance towards anyone today other than Dr Simmonds?'

'No.'

'Precisely,' Sherlock said calmly, turning to Neil Simmons, 'So isn't it more likely that I just find your lack of manners, because after all that is what we're talking about, irritating and annoying? I was always taught to knock before entering a room. Your upbringing was obviously less robust.' He smiled sweetly. 'Now what was it that you came to talk to me about?'

Neil Simmonds looked flustered. 'I don't recall saying that I came to see you about anything.'

'You didn't, but we don't have a session planned, and while you may have come here just to add bipolar disorder to the list of diagnoses ascribed to me, which so far included, let me see, psychosis, paranoia, depression, Aspergers, Sociopathic personality disorder, Psychopathic personality disorder, an Oedipal complex, social phobia, anxiety disorder and an option on anorexia nervosa, have I missed any out? So if you haven't come to add to that list, then I presume that you're here for a reason. The fact that you have your car keys in your jacket pocket indicates that you are shortly leaving for the evening. I presume that you left your briefcase at the nurse's station so that I couldn't use it as a missile; something that can't wait until tomorrow morning then. So what could you possibly have to tell me that is so important?'

'Sarah told me that you were going to organise a discharge meeting, so I'm presuming that you tried to contact my father and were told by his staff that he is currently in hospital, and have come to ensure that I am informed. The staff would have given you no further information, so you would have contacted my brother who would have told you that he has had a stroke, or possibly as you are medical more accurately that he has had a subarachnoid haemorrhage which has left him with some residual neurology and which has been treated surgically, I presume at least partially successfully, or otherwise you would have ignored my allegedly bad behaviour and have told me immediately. How am I doing?'

'How did you do that?' Neil Simmonds asked suspiciously.

'Do what?'

'Work all of that out.'

'By - working it out?' Sherlock said slowly and deliberately, ennunicating each word. 'Its not that difficult. You just have to use your brain.'

Sarah hid a smile behind her hand. Neil Simmonds hadn't had the full benefit of Sherlock since he had stopped taking the haloperidol. If this was how his brain worked on this amount of psychotropic medication, she would dread to think how fast it could function normally.

Neil Simmonds, unfortunately seemed to have regained his composure. 'So would you like to hear what I have discovered after your father, or shall we continue to play this guessing game?'

'Its not guessing,' Sherlock said, 'its deducing.'

'Up to you,' Neil Simmonds said. 'May I sit down by the way, if we're standing on ceremony.'

'Please do,' Sherlock said, 'So what do you have to tell me.'

'That your father is in hospital that he has had a subarachnoid haemorrhage, which you already appear to know. That he had surgery today, and has had one aneurysm clipped although another remains inaccessible. Your brother has asked for a discharge meeting, but unfortunately I am fully committed for the rest of the week so it will have to wait until next week. I came to ask you how you felt about being going home.'

'I want to go home,' Sherlock said snappily.

Liar, Sarah thought, you're terrified of going home, but fortunately Neil Simmonds is less good at reading your body language than I am.

'And you have no - apprehension about going back to live at the same house as your father?'

'Why should I?'

'Good. I'll set up the meeting then.'

'Enjoy the concert.' Sherlock said as Simmonds got up to leave.

He turned and frowned. 'How did you know about the concert?'

Sherlock looked innocent. 'You're not going to a concert?'

'Yes I am, but how did you? Oh no never mind. We have a session tomorrow. I'll see you then.'

'I can hardly wait,' Sherlock muttered, and retreated again to behind his book.

'How did you know about the concert.' Sarah asked him, when the door had clicked closed and the sound of Simmonds footsteps had died away.

'You really don't notice things do you? He's leaving earlier than normal, he kept looking at his watch so he obviously has somewhere he has to be, and he kept patting his pocket to check for tickets. He doesn't strike me as a theatre man, and I've heard him humming Mahler when he's distracted before, so concert was a fair bet. Did it work? Did it unsettle him?'

'Yes, I'd say that it worked very well indeed, but you shouldn't antagonise him.' Sarah said calmly.

'The man's an idiot.'

'True, but he's also the idiot who has control of your drug chart.'

Sherlock looked up at her, 'Are you honestly telling me that there are any more tablets that he can put me on?'

'A few, yes. Just be careful, Sherlock, thats all I'm saying.


	53. Chapter 53

Matt knocked on Sherlock's door at 10am sharp the next day, and found him lying on his bed, reading Freud again.

'Good book?' he asked.

'Ridiculous book,' Sherlock said. 'For a man who is held up as the father of modern psychoanalysis, he has absolutely no insight. He is obviously a repressed homosexual who is himself obsessed with sex and more specifically with sex with his own mother, and he therefore automatically assumes that the rest of humanity's minds work in the same way.'

'And they don't?' Matt asked.

'Mine doesn't. I don't want to have sex with my mother, and I'm not a repressed homosexual.'

Matt decided not to ask him about the rest. 'Why don't you come outside with me?' he said. 'You haven't been outside in days.'

'Its got to be better than Freud,' Sherlock said getting up and stretching. 'Although I'm trying to work out if there are any of his diagnosis that Simmonds hasn't ascribed to me yet.'

'So, discharge meeting next week I hear,' Matt said when they were sitting outside. 'How do you feel about that?'

'I thought we discussed you trying to psychoanalyse me,' Sherlock said coldly, looking into the distance.

'We did, and I agreed that I wouldn't.'

'Then stop trying to.'

'I'm not, I'm asking you a question.'

'No you're not. You're trying to probe into my twisted brain. I told you, I don't like it.' James Harrison's plan for Matt to do some psychotherapy work with Sherlock had overlooked one vital feature, Sherlock himself. It seemed that he was happy to have James Harrison delve into his mind, but nobody else. Matt's suggestion last week that he might like to talk to him about some of the issues which had arisen in his session with Caitlin and which he had declined to talk about then had met with a frosty, 'I don't think so,' and a request to go back inside.

Today it seemed was to be no different. 'I don't get it,' Matt said. 'You talk to me about other stuff.'

'But thats exactly it. We talk, and your respond to me like a normal human being. You're about the only person here who does that. Even Clare and Sarah watch what they say, and interpret what I say. Its exhausting. At least with you I can say whatever I think without having to filter it.'

'You filter what you say?' Matt said with a smile. 'I'd hate to hear what the unfiltered version is.'

'You know what I mean.'

'Sure. You see me as more of a friend than a grown-up. Thats fine.'

'I don't have friends,' Sherlock said automatically. 'And you're not my friend. I'm a patient. You're here because you're paid to be.'

That stung, more than Matt had expected, but he knew Sherlock well enough to realise that he only attacked when he felt threatened.

'So you are worried about going home.'

'What? Why on earth would you think that.'

'Because you're trying to manipulate me, and you only do that when you're trying to change the subject of the conversation.'

'Just like a psychopath would, Exactly. So you think Simmonds is right too.'

Matt sighed. 'I don't think that you're a psychopath, Sherlock, but while we're on the subject of how you behave you do realise that Sarah, Clare and I have all put our jobs on the line for you. We don't expect you to be grateful, but a little acknowledgment of the fact that we might actually care what happens to you, and that you're more than just another patient to us would be appreciated sometimes.'

'Sorry,' Sherlock mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

'Thats better. And what do you mean you don't have friends. There must have been people at school or home, people you enjoyed spending time with.'

'Maybe, I don't really remember.'

'Nobody?'

Sherlock swallowed hard. 'I think there was someone, at home. A girl.'

Matt grinned. 'Now we're talking. A girl, girl?'

'No, a boy girl, of course a girl, girl.'

'I mean a friend or more than a friend.'

'A bit more I think, but not a lot more. He swallowed again. 'The day my father attacked me, really attacked me, not long before I got ill. I think it was about her. I don't think he liked me seeing her, I think thats why he lost it.'

'You remember,' Matt said quietly.

'Bits and pieces, yes. I thought that he was going to kill me.'

'Sounds as if he nearly did. Do you know why he got so angry?'

'Not really. I can't even remember her name, but I think, I'm not sure but I think that she was connected to one of the servants in the house, He was shouting something about position and appropriateness. I think that was something to do with it. I think he thought I'd brought disgrace to the family.' He paused. 'I don't want to talk about this.'

'You don't much like talking about your Dad do you.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'It hurts too much.'

'Do you talk to James Harrison about it?'

'Not if I can help it.'

'What does he say about it?'

'He says I'll have to talk about it eventually, but only when I'm ready. I'm not ready.'

He looked as if he was in pain, Matt thought, fists clenched, staring at the ground. He left him to his own thoughts for several minutes, and then said quietly, 'Do you want to go back in?'

'No, its okay.'

'Are you worried about going home?'

'A bit, but I can't stay here forever can I? Mycroft will be there at least, and he's promised that my father won't be. If its bad then I'll take off.'

Matt was suddenly alert. This was new, this was dangerous. 'Where would you go?' he asked calmly.

'I've got an aunt in France,' Sherlock said. 'I could go there.'

'How would you get there?'

'The usual way. Train, ferry, then another train.' He had obviously considered this in some depth.

'Do you speak French?'

'Of course. I used to visit my mother there every summer that she was away.'

'What would you do for money?'

'I must have a bank account, or I could pickpocket Mycroft, its easy enough to do. I'd manage somehow.'

'At the risk of sounding like a grown-up Sherlock, I wouldn't advise it. You're going to find it tough the first few weeks out of here. You'll need support.'

'Mycroft's talking about getting me a psychiatric nurse when I first go home.'

'And you're not keen?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'It depends. I don't exactly get on with everyone, but most of the nurses here are okay. I'll see.'

Matt hesitated for only a split second. 'Sherlock will you do something for me? If you do decide to take off would you phone me, if I give you my number? I could give you a place to stay for a few nights, lend you some cash even. Will you promise me that at least?'

'Really?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'Because you're not just another patient to me. You're like a younger version of myself, I've told you that before and I'd like to be able to do for you what I wish someone had done for me. Look out for you, make sure you're okay.'

Sherlock considered. 'I suppose I could phone you. It would be better to have somewhere to go.' Then again. 'Really?'

'Yes really, I want you to. And there's something else I wanted to check with you. How would it be I came to visit you after you go home? Just to make sure that you're okay?'

'No,' Sherlock shook his head slowly. 'I don't think so.'

Matt was surprised yet again. 'Why not?'

'Because it would be awkward - for you and for Mycroft.'

'Why on earth should it be awkward for us?'

'Because you've got history with him, and he still acts oddly around you.' He looked at Matt. I'm right aren't I? Something happened between you - at college.'

Matt groaned. "God, you really don't miss anything do you? Yeah okay, we did have a thing, for a while. It was never going to work, but for a while we just couldn't stay away from each other. Its difficult to explain.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I thought so, and you ended it.'

'Well calculated. Eventually yes, but it was - messy. It was on and off for a while, then I met someone and I put a stop to it. It always worked better for Mycroft than for me anyway. It was uncomplicated. He liked that.'

'He would. So it would be weird, for both of you, if you came to the house.'

'It was a long time ago, Sherlock. It would be fine. He would understand, I think.'

'Best not.' Sherlock said, cold and unemotional again.

'How about letters. Thats a nice old fashioned thing that should appeal to you. Can I write to you?'

'If you want.'

'Phone?'

'No, I hate phones.' He looked surprised. 'I'd forgotten that, how strange. You can write though, and I'll write back if I can. So you know I'm okay, if you want to.'

'Sounds like a deal. So other than your Dad what else is worrying you about going home?'

'I don't remember it,' Sherlock said. 'Not at all. So everyone talks about home as if its some sacred thing, in all the books I read, its what everyone wants - to go home. But I have no idea what home is. Mycroft's told me about it, but I can't picture it, none of it. So for me its just going to another place, and other than Mycroft there's nothing there for me. My mother won't be there, my father I don't want to be there. So what is there?' he shrugged. 'To be honest I'd rather stay here, but Simmonds stops that being an option.'

'Thats probably just as well,' Matt said quietly. 'Sherlock you need to go home?'

'Why?'

'Because you need to get back to normal life.'

Sherlock gave a harsh laugh, 'But I'm not normal, am I? I don't think I've ever fitted in anywhere in my life, but here - its okay to be me. At least here people try to understand.'

'Life's not meant to be easy,' Matt said slowly, unsure how else to react to this uncharacteristic outpouring.

'Then why bother?'

'Because one day you'll be glad that you did. You're still depressed, Sherlock. Thats why you can't see things getting better, but they will.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I can only see things getting worse.'

'Worse than Simmonds, really? Worse than the food in here?' Sherlock smiled slightly. 'There you go. Look at it this way, from what Mycroft told me, your place is a bit like a cross between a five star hotel and a castle. Huge rooms, massive grounds, a library of books, and your own cook for heavens sake. How can that be bad? No Simmonds, nobody nagging you to do crap you don't want to do, servants to wait on you and best of all no Simmonds did I mention that?'

'Once or twice,' Sherlock said dryly.

'So how can that be bad? And if it is crap then you can go to Edinburgh. James Harrison has already said that, hasn't he. That he can get you transferred there once you're home if you can't cope. But you're better than that, Sherlock Holmes. You're a fighter if ever I saw one. You'll be okay.'

'Maybe, maybe not,' Sherlock said, rubbing the back of his neck again. 'I think I'll go back in now.'

'Okay, I'll walk you back.'

Back in his room Sherlock kicked off his shoes and threw himself on the bed. Clare had followed them into the room and looked at Matt questioningly.

'Too much?' Matt asked Sherlock.

'A bit, I just need some quiet time.

'Do you need anything?' Clare asked.

'No, just to be left alone.'

'Buzz if you want me then, I'll be outside.'

'What happened?' she asked Matt as she closed the door.

'He started talking, really talking, about all kinds of stuff. A bit about his Dad and how he attacked him, about a girl he knew at home, a kind of girlfriend I think, and then about how worried he is about going home.'

'Did he get upset?'

'No, not really, only when he was talking about his Dad. He's scared I think, of leaving here, we talked about that, about why he had to try. He'll be okay though, Clare, He's been here a long time, its going to be tough, better that he realises that now.'

Checking on Sherlock five minutes later, Clare found him fast asleep. She pulled a blanket over him, and then took up her old post on the chair by the door. He looked very young, very vulnerable in sleep. Matt was right, she knew. He would be okay, he would get through this. What she wished for him, more than anything, was that he would find in the outside world people who understood him and cared for him as much as she, Matt, Sarah and to a lesser extent James Harrison had come to do.

Sarah was right. His mind, now that its was freed from the sedation was truly extraordinary. She wondered what Sherlock Holmes would do with his life, what impact he would have in the world once he could be convinced of his place in it.


	54. Chapter 54

Sarah's warning to Sherlock about not antagonising Neil Simmonds had obviously gone unheeded.

It started badly when he came into Sherlock's room at his appointed 2pm time and woke him up, then commented on his untouched lunch tray and decided that today was the day to explore Sherlock's eating issues.

'I was asleep,' Sherlock told him coldly.

'So if you had been awake you would have eaten it?'

'Probably.'

'Then I'll ask Clare to order you a hot meal from the kitchen.'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because I've just woken up and I don't want to eat right now.'

'Will you eat later?'

'Maybe.'

Neil Simmonds sighed. 'Why are you being so defensive?'

'I'm not being defensive. I just don't want to eat at the moment, and I don't want to discuss your theories about my alleged eating disorder.'

'You don't think that you have an eating disorder?'

'No, I think that I just don't like eating very much. I don't think I'm fat, I think that I'm thin, therefore I don't have body dysmorphism and its unlikely that I have a clinical eating disorder wouldn't you agree? I don't like food because everything tastes odd since I've started taking the lithium.'

'You didn't like eating before.'

'No, because the food in here all tastes like crap and because eating is boring. But I'm not trying to control my weight, I'll drink as many milkshakes as the nurses give me. I just don't get hungry. Can we talk about something else please?'

'Of course. What would you like to talk about?'

'Was the concert good?'

'We're here to talk about you, not about my social life, but yes it was good thank you.'

'Anniversary?'

Neil Simmonds looked confused for a split second. 'Who told you that?'

'Nobody told me. I worked it out. I'm good at working things out. Nice cufflinks by the way, a present from your wife I presume. She must be feeling guilty.'

Clare cleared her throat from her seat across the room. She had stayed for the session at Sherlock's request.

'Now you're guessing,' Simmonds said.

'No I'm not, I'm working it out, I told you. Diamond cufflinks and you've been married what seven years? Second marriage?'

'You are guessing.'

'No I'm observing. Wedding ring, tarnished slightly, a few scratches, about seven years old, but you've got grown-up children, so second marriage. Diamond cufflinks for a seventh wedding anniversary says she feels guilty, she's trying to compensate for something. I wonder what...'

Sherlock tailed off expectantly a wicked gleam in his eye. 'Sherlock,' Clare said warningly and shook her head at him, but the damage was done. Neil Simmonds looked extremely flustered now. Sherlock's father had told him that he was bright, but this was ridiculous. Psychopathy without a doubt, this need to manipulate, to lie and deceive. He must have found out from the nurses about the concert, about his first marriage, about the children, about his wife's recent affair. Good to be proved right. Because there was no way that anyone could have worked all of that out, because nobody could possibly be that clever.

Sherlock was looking smug, he noticed. Time to do something about that.

'Do you enjoy upsetting people?' Simmonds asked.

'Why have I upset you?'

'Thats not what I asked.'

'No I don't.'

'Then why do you deliberately manipulate people.'

'I don't.'

'Then what would you call that little demonstration.'

'I told you, working things out.'

'Sherlock, you can't possibly have worked all of that out. Somebody, probably Matt I suspect, the nurses are more careful, has told you information about my private life which you are using in an attempt to try to get a reaction out of me.'

'Nobody told me anything.'

'And now you're lying about it.'

'Why? Because it proves that I might just be cleverer than you are?'

'Why does proving how clever you are matter so much to you?'

Sherlock threw himself back against the pillows on his bed in frustration. 'Why don't you just piss off,' he said; without anger Clare noticed. He just sounded tired and frustrated.

'Because we are in the middle of a therapy session.'

'I don't want to talk to you,' Sherlock said coldly. 'You don't help. You just point out all the things that are wrong with me.'

'Sometimes thats necessary.'

'James Harrison never did that.'

'James Harrison isn't here anymore.'

'No he isn't, unfortunately. But Caitlin doesn't do that either.'

'No, Caitlin lets you talk about whatever you want to talk about. I like things to be a little more structured.'

'You mean you like to be in control.'

'Sherlock, why are you resisting this so much.

'Because I don't want you poking around inside my head,' Sherlock said struggling to keep the anger out of his voice.

'If you want to get home then you are going to have to cooperate.'

'Why? So you can report everything back to my father? I don't think so.'

'That sounds very much like paranoia?'

'So you're not reporting everything back to my father, not now of course, he's in hospital, but are you trying to tell me that you haven't been?'

'Thats irrelevant.'

'Is it?' he suddenly remembered something. 'You told him about my dreams didn't you? Thats how he knew. James Harrison didn't tell him and nobody else knew about them. You breached my confidentiality. I didn't think that you were meant to do that.'

'He is your father, Sherlock. He was concerned.'

'I don't want to talk about this.'

'You need to talk about this.'

'No,' Sherlock said, struggling to keep the anger out of his voice. His hands were balled into fists and his head was turned into the pillow, facing away from Simmonds. 'Clare?'

'I'm right here,' Clare said, coming over to the bed.

'Get him out.'

'Sherlock...' Neil Simmonds said, warningly.

'I can't do this now,' Sherlock said, 'just get out and leave me alone,' he paused. 'Please.'

Then when Neil Simmonds remained seated, he said, 'Look if you don't get out I might just punch you. I don't want to, but I just might, so I suggest that you get out of my room. Now.'

And leave Neil Simmonds did, more swiftly than Sherlock could have hoped.

'You okay?' Clare asked as the door clicked shut behind him.

'Has he gone?'

'Yes. What happened?'

Sherlock sat up and rubbed his face, still not able to look at her. 'I don't know I just got - angry. I can't stand that man.'

'I think that you made that very clear,' Clare said.

'What will he do?' Sherlock asked quietly.

'I suspect he'll put up your medication again,' Clare paused, 'and secretly be very pleased that you've proved all of his theories.'

'Will he let me go home?'

'Do you want to go home?'

'I want to get away from that bastard, yes.'

'Why does he upset you so much?' Clare asked, deliberately side-stepping the question, because she was fairly convinced that after that little demonstration Neil Simmonds wasn't going to be letting Sherlock go home any time soon.

'Because he reminds me of my father,' Sherlock said quietly. 'Hard, manipulative, always pointing out why I'm not good enough.' He closed his eyes. 'Can I have some lorazepam?'

'Of course,' Clare tried to hide her surprise. He hadn't asked for lorazepam in over a week. 'Or I can take you to the music room if that would help.'

'No, I'd probably just throw my violin against the wall or something and that would be awful. I just want to sleep.'

Concerned, Clare phoned James Harrison as soon as Sherlock was asleep and told him what had happened.

'We need to get him out of there,' James Harrison said. 'I don't know whats got into Neil Simmonds, but he's not doing Sherlock any favors. Give him a message from me can you? Tell him that I advise him to refuse to talk to Simmonds. Just to stay silent and ask to talk to Caitlin instead. That should work. Is he putting up his medication?'

'I think the jury is out. He's ordered a lithium level for tomorrow morning anyway.'

'When's the discharge meeting?'

'Not until next week . Simmonds is away at a conference for the rest of this week anyway, so thats something.'

'Tell Sherlock that I'll come and see him on Sunday and to hang on in there. I'll talk to Mycroft, make sure that he's putting other plans in place.'


	55. Chapter 55

The next day brought a very subdued Sherlock, and Clare found herself longing for Sarah's insight. Sarah was always very good at working out what was going on inside Sherlock's head, and getting him to talk about it, something that Clare herself seemed to be failing badly at today. Instead she settled for offering calm and gentle support. Not judging, because he had had more than enough of being judged by Simmonds, just being there and trying to give him what he need. Acceptance and understanding.

He ate breakfast silently, then asked to go to the music room where he picked up his violin, untouched until now, spent some time tuning it and tightening the strings on the bow and then started to play. Scales at first, and then he launched suddenly and without warning into Brahms' violin concerto. Clare sat and listened to him as the music poured from his bow and fingers and wondered if there was anything that this boy couldn't do if he set his mind to it.

The music room faced out onto the lawn, the windows were open and Clare realised that there was a steadily increasing group of people coming to sit on the grass outside the window, most with their backs against the windows as if they had come to sit there by chance, but slowly all conversation stopped as one by one they became lost in the music that he was creating. Beautiful, Clare thought; so, so beautiful a thing to come out of so much pain and anguish. Brahms changed without pause to Bach, Mozart and then other music that Clare did not recognise. He played for the best part of two hours uninterrupted before putting the bow down, then looking at Clare and frowning as if struggling to remember who she was.

'I'd like to go back to my room now,' he said, as voices began murmuring again outside.

'You okay?' she asked as he put his violin away and wearily rubbed the side of his face.

'Fine. But I'm tired, I want to sleep.'

And so she escorted him in silence back to his room, where he curled up on the bed and was asleep without medication in minutes. Music did for him what writing and talking did for others, she realised. The ability to express himself without words, and without being judged.

When he woke he was calmer, but still quiet. Sleeping and reading in rotation for the remainder of the day, declining Matt's offer to go outside or even of conversation. 'Not today, I don't want to talk today.'

Caitlin came to see him, to review his medication and was met with much the same response. 'Give him some time,' she told Clare, after fifteen minutes of trying and failing to get him to talk. 'His lithium level is too low, thats why he's still getting the mood swings. We'll put it up, see if that helps.'

'And if it doesn't?'

'Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. He was doing well though wasn't he? Its just Neil Simmonds who seems to set him off.'

Sense at last. 'Can you keep him away from Sherlock?' Clare asked. 'Get him to see that he only provokes him, that he makes things worse.'

'I can try,' Caitlin said, 'but you know what he's like. You can't tell Simmonds anything. At least he's away for the rest of the week, that will give Sherlock a bit of a break, give the lithium a chance to kick in.'

'And then?'

'And then,' Caitlin sighed, 'I think that we need to get him home, back to normality. Because the more that time goes on, the more convinced I am that being here is the worst possible thing for him now. '

'I couldn't agree with you more,' Clare said. 'So will you say that at the discharge meeting next week, no matter what Neil Simmonds says?'

'I'll say what I believe to be the truth,' Caitlin said, frowning. 'That he needs to go home, that I think that he's ready to go home, and that remaining here is no longer in his best interests.'

'Because of Simmonds.'

'Partly, yes, but thats one thing that I won't be saying. He's my boss, Clare, I can't go up against him.'

Clare hesitated. 'Caitlin,' she said quietly, 'there are people here, staff members I mean who aren't happy with the way that Simmonds is treating patients. If it came to it, would you be prepared to support that view?'

'Yes,' Caitlin said, after considering briefly. 'I would. I should have had the courage to report my concerns before. If I had, then I might have prevented some of the damage that he's done to Sherlock. I don't fully understand it, Clare, its also as if he's got a vendetta against him. I've never seen any other patient have this effect on him.'

'Sherlock doesn't help himself though, does he? All this ridiculous point-scoring against Simmonds. It just makes things worse.'

'True, but can you blame him? After all what other weapons does he have.'

'Do you think that Simmonds will let him go?'

'I don't know. Thats the honest truth. We'll just have to see what the discharge meeting next week brings.'


	56. Chapter 56

Forewarned by Clare of the events of the preceding two days, Sarah was pleasantly surprised to find Sherlock sitting up in his chair, fully dressed and reading when she started her shift the next morning.

'You're up early,' she said.

'Couldn't sleep,' he said, looking up from his book, Jung this time. 'Are you going to tell me off?'

'What for?'

'For antagonising Simmonds. I should have listened to you.'

Sarah shook her head slightly, 'No, I'm not going to tell you off. From what Clare says it sounds as if it was all fairly horrible. What happened?'

'I tried to be clever, told him all kind of stuff that I'd worked out about him, including the fact that his wife had had an affair. He accused me of being a liar and a psychopath, again, among other things, and then I got angry and threatened to hit him. So I proved him right. Again.'

Sarah tried not to laugh and failed. You told Simmonds that his wife had had an affair? How on earth did you work that one out?'

'It was easy - too easy. He came in here in a smart jacket and tie the day of the concert, so obviously a special occasion - birthday or anniversary, but when I asked him about the concert he started playing with his wedding ring, so anniversary. Wedding ring isn't that old, seven or eight years maybe looking at the scuff marks on it, but Simmonds is what mid fifties? Could be his first marriage, but a few weeks ago, just after fathers day, he came in wearing a tie with a modern art print on it. Thats not a present a child would give, its a present someone in their twenties, probably a daughter would give, so grown-up children says second marriage. Then today he came in with new diamond cufflinks, expensive present, could be a special anniversary, but that doesn't tie in with the age of the wedding ring, guilt present then, probably an affair. Statistically most affairs occur between the sixth and seventh years of marriage, this is obviously the first anniversary after and his wife is trying to overcompensate, hence seven years of marriage.'

'You told him all that?'

'No, I just told him that it was his seventh wedding anniversary and his wife had had an affair. He assumed someone must have told me, I said I'd worked it out, then he called me a liar and a psychopath.'

'What happened then?'

'We somehow got onto the subject of my father and his reporting back to him. He accused me of being paranoid, I accused him of breaching my confidentiality, and it deteriorated from there.'

'And you threatened to hit him.'

'Yes.'

'So what bothered you most - what he said, or the anger?'

'Both.' He looked up at Sarah again. 'I hate that he gets to me so much, Sarah. I try not to let him, to outthink him, but he still managed to push all the right buttons.'

'If it helps, the anger is part of your illness. Getting the lithum dose right should help that.'

'Meaning you're putting the dose up?'

'I'm not, Caitlin is, the level is too low.'

'Great, more side effects.'

'Hopefully not, but lets face it if you thump Simmonds he's never going to let you out of here.'

'But he's the only one who has this effect on me.'

'Because of the labelling?'

'Partly, yes. I can't bear it. Its just a long list of things that are wrong with me. I accept that I'm ill, but all of these personality disorders I'm meant to have, its all a pile of crap.'

Sarah smiled. 'We used to play a game when I was a student, on nights. We'd use the diagnostic manual and see how many disorders we could ascribe to each other, Its was surprisingly easy, I think the record was seventeen.'

'Simmonds must be close to that with me.' Sherlock smiled and shook his head. 'I feel better, thanks.'

'So what do you want to do today?'

'Go outside I think. Can I do that? Take a book onto the lawn and stay there for the morning? Will you come with me?'

'Spend a morning reading in the sun and get paid for it? Now thats an offer I can't refuse. Or do you want me to see if Matt's about to go out with you?'

'Maybe later, I'm not up to talking yet, and thats what Matt always wants to do. I'd rather just be quiet for a bit.'

'Okay. We can go via the library if you want, see if there are any new books for you. You're getting through that stack at the rate of knots.'

'Can I do that? I thought they only brought them to the rooms.'

'No, you can go. Its a public area, so Simmonds doesn't want you going there without an escort, but I can take you.'

'In case I lose it and become violent? Of course.'

Sarah frowned at him. 'Its not about that Sherlock, you know that. I would be perfectly happy for you to socialise in the public areas, maybe even move back to the main ward, but this has come from Simmonds, via I presume your father. No socialising. Do you mind?'

'No, not really. Its easier like this.'

'Good. So medication and breakfast, and then we can go outside.'

Matt came across them midmorning, sitting on the grass, surrounded by the books that Sherlock had got from the library, and discussing one of them earnestly.

'Matt, thank goodness,' Sarah said, smiling at him. 'Come and talk to Sherlock about philosophy. He's asking all kinds of questions that I can't hope to answer.'

'Then you're in luck,' Matt said. 'I did philosophy as part of my degree. What are you talking about?'

'Existentialism.'

'Interesting, and good for you, Sherlock. More ammunition against Simmonds? Are you going to point out to him that according to Sartre the only person who can define you is yourself and your own actions?'

'Maybe, although Sarah thinks that I should just keep quiet and try not to provoke him.'

'I just think that the only one who ends up getting hurt is you,' Sarah said quietly. 'You can't win with Simmonds, you know that. He knows exactly how to provoke you into a reaction and when you attack he doesn't hesitate to do exactly that.'

Sarah left Sherlock talking to Matt, while she went back inside, pleased to see him doing so much better than the last few days. Without Simmond's interference she could see him getting better, day by day. The skies stayed clear and blue all week, and Sherlock alternated his time between the garden and the music room. He had a useful session with Dominic, when they worked more on his memory storage, and slowly his memories were starting to return, although they were still very patchy.

Even Caitlin noticed the change in Sherlock when she saw him on Thursday, 'He's doing well.' she reported back to the team meeting on Friday. 'He seems a lot more positive, less paranoid, I'd say that he's just about ready to go home.'

Sarah left him in Clare's care over the weekend, hopeful that the discharge meeting the next week would go just as positively. Surely with the reports from Caitlin, Dominic and the nursing team even Neil Simmonds couldn't put any more obstacles in their way?


	57. Chapter 57

The discharge meeting was planned for eleven o'clock on Tuesday. They were all there; Caitlin, David, the charge nurse for the unit, Sarah, Mycroft, Sherlock and the social worker. Neil Simmonds had been held up, but would be joining them later. The social worker was leading the meeting in his absence, inviting comments from the professionals there, and from Sherlock himself. They began by establishing that Sherlock wanted to go home, felt that he would be safe at home, and that as his temporary guardian while his father was in hospital, Mycroft would ensure that he was safe there. The plan was that Sherlock should return to his family home, at least initially while his father remained in hospital. If and when his father was able to return home, given his previous stormy relationship with his father, then Mycroft was exploring the option of sending him to stay with relatives in France. In the meantime Mycroft himself would be staying in the house with Sherlock, abandoning his flat in Westminster for the time being. The fact that Mycroft had employed a private psychiatric nurse to stay with Sherlock was mentioned, the fact that it was Sarah was absolutely not mentioned. They had agreed to keep this quiet until Sarah had left the clinic.

The report from Caitlin was encouraging. She felt that Sherlock was making good progress. The delusions appeared to have gone; he was no longer psychotic, and he was less paranoid on the increased dose of olanzapine. His mood appeared to be lifting, and provided that he continued with psychotherapy and CBT on discharge, she felt that home was the best place for him.

Sarah gave a nursing report, backing up Caitlin's statement, and even the report from Dominic was encouraging. Sherlock was engaging well with CBT, and it seemed to be helping. When he went home, Dominic would hand over his care to a local psychologist.

Neil Simmonds entered the room and remained silent during Sarah and Dominic's reports.

'So are we agreed that Sherlock is much improved, and is no longer a danger to himself or others?' the social worker asked. Because if so then we have the appropriate people here to lift the section and plan a discharge date.'

'I don't think that we can say that Sherlock isn't a danger to others,' Neil Simmonds said slowly. 'He remains prone to violent outbursts. If that happened in the community it is difficult to predict the outcome.'

'But his outbursts are generally only under extreme provocation,' Sarah protested, 'And they're becoming less frequent.' Sherlock himself remained silent, glaring at Simmonds with undisguised hatred. Sarah squeezed his hand under the table to remind him to stay calm.

'He threw a book at my head yesterday,' Neil Simmonds said. 'Would you deny that, Sherlock?'

'I threw a book at the wall,' Sherlock said. 'You just happened to be coming into the room at the time.'

'So why did you throw the book?'

'Because I was angry.'

'And when you threatened to punch me last week?'

'I was angry then too. Its the effect that you seem to have on me.'

'Precisely. So I say we add in another mood stabiliser and meet again in another three weeks to discuss this. I am not happy to contemplate discharge without an improvement in the volatility of your behaviour.'

'Three weeks is a long time,' Sarah said calmly, 'And with respect, the last thing that Sherlock needs is more medication. We've only just put his lithium dosage up, and its only you that he seems to get angry at. Besides he's a teenager, and should be expected to act like a teenager. Mood swings are a normal part of teenage behaviour.'

Neil Simmonds narrowed his eyes and contemplated Sherlock. 'You are wrong, Sarah, I am afraid. 'Sherlock is not just a teenager, he is a depressed, delusional, sociopathic and probably psychopathic teenager, who needs to remain here until both I and his father agree that he is fit for discharge.'

'My father?' Sherlock asked in disbelief. 'You are telling me that I have to stay here until my father agrees for my discharge? My father is the reason that I'm here in the first place. He'll never agree.'

Mycroft looked at him sharply, but it was too late.

'You still believe that do you? That events with your father led to your illness? Delusional as I said. Another indication of the need to keep you here under section until you recognise your delusions for what they are.'

Sherlock was on his feet before he knew it, throwing the water jug at Simmonds yet again. He ducked, and the jug hit the wall behind him, spraying those nearest it in cold water.

'You fucking bastard,' he shouted, 'You never had any intention of letting me go home.' For a split second, Sarah thought that he was going to reach across the table and punch Simmonds, but instead he almost ran towards the door and pulled at the door handle. The door was, of course locked.

Sarah was close behind. 'Get me out of here,' he whispered to her between clenched teeth, 'because otherwise I will hit him, I swear.'

'Okay, okay,' she said, opening the door with her card. 'I'm taking Sherlock back to his room,' she said to the room without turning round, shepherding him out of the door without waiting to hear the response.

They were met by a horde of sprinting security guards and support staff coming down the corridor, summoned no doubt by a panic alarm from the meeting room.

'Alert cancelled,' Sarah said to them succinctly as she guided Sherlock past them. His head was down, hands still clenched into fists, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other until he reached the security of the room and threw himself onto the bed, fists pounding the pillow.

The buzz and click of the door announced the arrival of another nurse, alerted by Sarah's expression as she had walked past the nursing station with Sherlock, who was obviously barely holding it together. Sarah held up a hand to keep her silent and by the door until she worked out what was needed.

'Are you going to hit somebody?' she asked after several minutes when Sherlock was finally lying still, now face down on the bed, face turned into the mattress.'

'I'm not going to hit you,' he said, his voice muffled by the bedclothes.

'Do you want some lorazepam.'

'Whatever you think.'

Sarah nodded at the nurse at the door who disappeared to get it.

Sarah sat quietly by the bed, waiting for Sherlock to calm down, but five minutes later after the other nurse had brought in the medication he was still in the same position, although his breathing had slowed.

'Are you going to sit up and take the tablets or do you want the injection?' she asked him calmly.

Silently he sat up, swallowed the tablets and then lay down, curled up, but with his face towards her. He whispered something incomprehensible.

'Say that again,' Sarah said, 'I couldn't hear you,'

'I said I'm sorry,' he said, 'I ballsed it up, didn't I? Again. Simmonds is never going to let me out now.'

'He pushed you to it Sherlock. Deliberately. It doesn't matter. Mycroft will find a way to get you out,'

A soft knock at the door preceded a buzz and then Caitlin appeared, looking concerned. She took in Sherlock's huddled shape, and Sarah bent close to him, talking to him.

'Not now,' Sarah said to her. 'Give us ten minutes, and I'll come and find you.'

Sherlock was silent, eyes open, staring at the wall.

'Don't give up,' she said to him softly, 'we'll find a way.'

'Maybe Simmonds is right,' Sherlock said. 'What if I am dangerous, a psychopath even. What if he's right? Perhaps I'm better just staying here.'

'No, Sherlock, you need to go home. Simmonds is just a bastard who is under your father's thumb. We will get you home. I promise.'

She waited with him until he fell asleep, and then walked out to be told that Caitlin and Mycroft were waiting in the little doctors office off the ward. So, unfortunately was Neil Simmonds, and he was writing in Sherlock's drug chart.

'Is he sedated?' he asked Sarah, who nodded her reply. 'Carbemazepine, starting this evening,' he said briskly. 'Should level him out a little more. And I want him back on regular sedation.'

'On top of the olanzapine, and the lithium, and the antidepressants. Really?' Sarah didn't even try to keep the irritation out of her voice. 'You'll turn him into a zombie.'

'Perhaps, but a safe zombie. One who doesn't throw water jugs at people.'

'I think thats the wrong decision,' Sarah said tersely, looking for Caitlin for support.

'Maybe we should wait a few days...' Caitlin was saying, but Neil Simmonds held up an imperious hand to silence her.'

'Carbemazepine, tonight,' he repeated to Sarah.

She narrowed her eyes at him, before calmly and deliberately saying, 'No.'

'What do you mean, no?'

'I mean that I disagree, and I won't give it to him, ' she said. 'He was provoked. He's doing well. The last thing that he needs is any more medication. He needs to get home.'

'Are you refusing to obey my orders, staff nurse?'

'Yes,' Sarah said.

'Then I will have to option other than to have you suspended with immediate effect.'

Sarah opened her mouth and then closed it again. What had she expected after all. But she wanted to be there for Sherlock. One way or the other he would be given the tablets, better to do it when she was there to support him.'

'Fine, I'll give him the tablets,' she said, 'but my resignation will be on your desk in the morning. I'll work out my notice, but then I'm finding another job.' And she walked out of the room, before she could be tempted to throw anything at Simmond's smug face, and went to the nurses station where she buried her face in her arms and tried very hard not to cry.

A gentle hand on her shoulder a few minutes later turned out to belong to Caitlin. 'He's gone,' she said quietly. 'Come on, I'm taking you for a cup if tea.'

'Sherlock,' Sarah said, 'I should check on him.'

'I just did,' Caitlin said, 'still asleep. I've asked Jamie to keep an eye on him. Come on.'


	58. Chapter 58

They walked in silence to the canteen, where Caitlin sent Sarah to find a table while she went to get the tea. Coming back she found Sarah sitting head in hands, looking extremely shaken.

'For what its worth, I agree with you.' she said. 'But you know Simmonds, once he's made his mind up he's not to be moved. Are you really going to leave?'

'Yes,' Sarah said, 'Not just because of today, I decided weeks ago. Because of Simmonds, because of the way that he treats patients. When James Harrison was in charge of the unit it was fine. Simmonds is just so heavy handed, I hate it. I can't work under him.'

'You know that you're going to have to give Sherlock that carbemazepine, don't you? If you don't he'll have you suspended. He's already talked to David about it. They're letting it slide as long as you don't disobey orders.'

'And if Sherlock refuses to take it?'

'Then I suspect he'll opt for more ECT.'

Sarah shook her head. 'So he can't win.'

'None of us can.' Sarah looked up sharply. Was Caitlin declaring sides?

'You don't like his treatment methods either?'

'No, I hate them. In fact I've talked to one of my old bosses about it, and I'm getting advice about how to take it forward. I think that its unethical the way he uses ECT as a weapon almost. Blitz their brains, load them full of sedating medication, and then you don't have to do proper psychotherapy or address the underlying issues. Its just horrible.'

'Can you report him?' Sarah asked, suddenly full of hope.

'Possibly, but not on my own. That could look like sour grapes and make my position here very difficult, and I like it here Sarah, other than Simmonds.'

'You should talk to James Harrison about it,' Sarah said. 'Simmonds was one of the reasons that he left too. I'll give you his mobile number. He would back you up, maybe even report Simmonds himself.'

Back in Sherlock's room half an hour later, she found him sleeping peacefully, and taking over from Jamie sat down at the desk which had been reinstated by the door. Close observations, of course. It was only sensible after an episode like this.

Sherlock slept until the early evening, waking as the supper tray arrived with a thud on his bedside table. He focused with difficulty on Sarah, and then remembering the events of the morning closed his eyes and turned his face back into the pillow.

'Its okay,' she told him gently. 'Its not a disaster. How are you feeling?'

'My head hurts,' he said, then taking in the table by the door. 'Are we back to that.'

'Just for a couple of days, but on the bright side, I dont think that Simmonds is going to be coming near you any time soon. Thats two showers that you've given him during this admission. He's letting Caitlin do all of your psychotherapy for a few weeks. Apparently there's some negative transferrance, at least thats how he's terming it.'

Sherlock snorted. 'You mean that he's finally worked out that I hate his guts? He's remarkably thick-skinned for a psychiatrist, isn't he, I though they were meant to be perceptive.'

'No comment,' Sarah said dryly. 'The bad news is that he's putting you on carbemazepine. Its another mood stabiliser.

'He thinks thats going to stop me throwing things at him?'

'Apparently, yes. I tried to tell him that it was a bad idea, but it appears that he's not really interested in my views.'

Sherlock rubbed a hand across his forehead and looked at her sleepily. 'Did I get you into trouble?' he asked.

'I got myself into trouble. In fact, I resigned, but don't panic,' looking at his stricken face, 'I've got to work out four weeks notice, so I'll be here until you leave, and after that I've got a new job lined up.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. A fantastic one in fact. One patient, lovely big house, big library of books to read, out in the countryside. Sounds idyllic.'

Sherlock stayed silent but his face said it all. She laughed, 'Its you, you idiot. Your brother's offered me a job looking after you when you leave here. I'm coming home with you, if you'll have me.'

'Seriously?'

'Seriously.'

He frowned. 'But why would Mycroft do that?'

'Because he does care about you, Sherlock, and because for some reason he seems to think that I handle you well, that I understand you.'

'Handle me? I'm not a dog.'

Sarah smiled at him. 'Lets leave him to his illusions shall we? I don't think that I handle you at all. I just think that I allow you to be yourself and nag you into something resembling acceptable behaviour at times. So is that okay with you? If I come home with you?'

He nodded. 'I would like that. Very much. It would feel better, safer to have you there.'

'I'm not going to let your father within six feet of you, if it helps.'

'It does. I was worried that he would find someone that I didn't know, couldn't talk to. This is better.'

'And there's more. James Harrison is going to see you privately at home too, when he's down from Edinburgh. Your other sessions he's going to do by phone, and I can phone him for advice if I need to. Plus he's recommended a psychologists for your CBT, so we're basically good to go.'

'My father,' Sherlock swallowed. 'You don't know him Sarah.'

'Mycroft has guaranteed to me that you won't be in the house at the same time as him and besides,' Sarah hesitated. 'Mycroft phoned while you were asleep. He had another stroke, Sherlock. This morning. He's in intensive care. They're not sure if he'll recover.'

'I hope he dies,' Sherlock said bitterly. 'There's a pit in hell with his name on it as far as I'm concerned.'

Sarah stared at him in horror before neutralising her expression. 'I told you I was a psychopath,' Sherlock said, 'What son thinks that about his father?'

'I'm not shocked because of what you're saying, Sherlock. I think that its understandable. You're angry, of course you're angry. I'm shocked because its the first time that I've ever heard you express anything other than fear when talking about your father, and because you're actually talking about him for the first time in a long, long time.'

'And you're shocked because I'm not upset.'

She considered. 'Not really. I think that all you've ever associated with your father is fear and pain, even in here, thanks to Neil Simmonds. Relief is a natural emotion to feel when you realise that that fear and pain might stop permanently.'

He looked unconvinced. Sarah sighed. 'What you feel is what you feel, Sherlock. It is never wrong.

'This anger,' Sherlock said quietly. 'I don't like it. Today, I could have strangled Neil Simmonds, I wanted to.'

'But you didn't,' she said calmly, 'you wouldn't have, Sherlock. You walked away from it, and when I asked you if you were going to hit someone when you got back here, you said no.'

'I said that I wouldn't hit you,' he said, 'not that I wouldn't hit anyone.'

'Which proves that you were still in control. Anger is natural. We don't want to flatten you out to the extent that you don't feel anything, although thats what Neil Simmonds would like to do.'

'Why not? Emotions aren't helpful. They complicate things.'

'Emotions are human, they convert the world from black and white to colour. You're not a robot, Sherlock, don't try to make yourself into one.'


	59. Chapter 59

Leaving work that evening, Sarah phoned James Harrison to update him on the events of the day. He was surprisingly calm about the turn of events.

'Simmonds was never going to let Sherlock go without a fight,' he said. 'I have no idea what kind of hold Viscount Holmes has over Neil Simmonds, but its obviously an impressive one. Mycroft has already phoned me. We've agreed that we should allow things to calm down for a few days while he puts some plans in place. How's Sherlock?'

'Miserable, angry at himself, frustrated. I think that just about covers it.'

'He was doing so well when I saw him at the weekend.'

'Can you blame him? We keep offering him hope and then stripping it away again .'

'He'll be fine Sarah, he just needs to get home. I'd keep him sedated for the next few days, don't give him a chance to process it too much. I'll come and see him on Saturday and if his brother has anything to do with it, we'll have him home within a fortnight.'

'What if Simmonds starts talking about ECT again?'

'Then you'll have to do what you can to stop him.'

'He won't listen to me, James.'

'No, but he might listen to Caitlin. I'll give her a ring and see if we can get her on side.'

'I talked to her earlier. She might just phone you first. She's talking about reporting Simmonds herself.'

'Is she now. Good girl, I'm glad to hear that she's finally seeing sense. Will she help do you think?'

'Difficult to say. She certainly disagrees with his methods, but how much she'll go up against him directly I'm not sure.'

'I'll phone her and see what she says.'

'And how do I handle Sherlock in the meantime?'

'Exactly the way you always handle him Sarah. With honesty and gentleness. He's tougher than he gives himself credit for. He'll get through this.'

'But with what damage?'

'He was damaged already, Sarah, you know that. Neil Simmonds and his father may have made that a little worse, but the rest of us are starting to help him, despite everything. Don't underestimate the impact that you have had on him, that we have all had on him. He has a bright, bright future ahead of him. We just have to help him to see that.'

Sherlock was still asleep when Sarah started her shift the next morning. Laurie, who had been with him overnight reported that he had slept for the majority of her shift, waking briefly only to ask for more sedation, and decline the offer of talking.

'He seems sad,' she said, 'but then thats to be expected.'

'Did he take the carbemazepine?' Caitlin asked, at handover, where Neil Simmonds was thankfully absent.

'Yes, last night,' Sarah said. He seemed - resigned to it somehow, swallowed all of his pills in one go. He doesn't like the anger. It scares him.'

'The higher dose of lithium hasn't had a chance to kick in yet,' Caitlin was saying. 'We might well be able to get him off the carbemazepine again in a few weeks when things have leveled out a little.' She caught Sarah's eye in silent conspiracy. Her way of letting her know that she had talked to James Harrison and agreed with his plan. Good. With Caitlin on board things should get even easier.

Sherlock slept until midmorning, then lay, eyes open, staring out of the window not speaking for several minutes.

'You're awake,' Sarah said. 'How is it?'

'Horrible,' he said quietly.

'Horrible as in - getting up and going to the music room for some distraction is an option, or horrible as in you just need to go back to sleep.'

'The latter.'

'You don't even want to try?'

'No,' he closed his eyes, 'Not today.'

'I've got some additional sedation for you today anyway, James Harrisons idea, not just Neil Simmonds. I talked to James last night and he predicted a rocky couple of days. Suggested more sedation might be the best thing.'

'Works for me,' Sherlock said, sitting up and reaching for the pot of tablets. He sounded flat, too tired even to be angry. He swallowed the tablets quickly and lay back down again.

'Water,' Sarah said firmly. 'Drink some water first, otherwise you're going to end up back at square one.'

'Simmonds will get me there anyway.'

'And he'll try to list you for more ECT. Lets not go there. I'll barricade us into this room to stop that happening if it comes to it, but I'd rather not test that theory just yet.'

Reluctantly he sat up again and downed a glass of water. 'He'll threaten me with ECT if I don't start eating whatever else I do.'

'No he won't, because you're going to do a magnificent job of drinking those milkshakes that you love so much, including the one that you just drank for breakfast.' She winked at him.

'Thank you,' he said quietly.

'I'm on your side Sherlock, don't forget that. We're going to get you home, soon. But you need to keep drinking, thats all I ask. Otherwise we could both end up in serious trouble.'

'Okay.'

He slept for the rest of the day, waking, taking more tablets, drinking water under Sarah's gentle insistence and then sleeping again. Sleep was good, sleep stopped him from thinking, but then there was that horrible moment on waking when he remembered again where he was, what had happened and how utterly trapped he felt.

Matt caught him in a rare moment of consciousness late in the afternoon, when he had just woken up, and Sarah had not yet brought him any more medication. She was trying to coerce him into genuinely drinking a milkshake, and he was trying to explain why anything other than water really wasn't going to happen that day.

Sarah opened the door to Matt's soft knock. He looked past her to Sherlock, 'You up to visitors?' he asked.

'No,' Sherlock said grumpily, frustrated by his inability to argue with Sarah effectively with all of the sedation on board.

'I'll come in anyway then, shall I?' Matt said with a grin.

Sherlock sighed. 'I don't want to talk Matt,' he said wearily.

'Thats fine,' Matt said sitting down by the bed. 'Maybe I just wanted to check that you were okay. Yesterday sounded pretty heavy.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. 'Heavy, yes.'

'Good job I wasn't there. I would have thumped him.'

Sherlock opened his eyes, gave Matt an old-fashioned look and said cooly, 'No you wouldn't.'

'I might just have surprised you.'

Sherlock smiled, despite everything. 'Thank you,' he said.

'So why didn't you? Punch him I mean?'

'It would just have made things worse.'

'Which proves that you were still in control.'

'I still threw a water jug at him though.'

'Did you? If you'd thrown a water jug at him from that distance you would have hit him. I think that you threw it at the wall deliberately.'

'At exactly the right angle to ensure that he got the maximum spray from the water? Yes you're right, I did.'

'Just like you threw that book at the door the other day to prove a point - you heard his footsteps, and you knew that he would come in without knocking, because he always does, so you timed it to just miss him.'

Sherlock sighed again. 'Whats your point Matt? I'm too tired for this.'

'My point is that you don't want to hurt people. You just want to shake them up a bit. You do the same with words. Push people to breaking point, rattle them to see what falls out of their pockets.'

'Does that make me a psychopath?'

'No, that makes you extremely intelligent. You should do something with that intellect.'

'Like what? Be a psychologist like you? I don't think so.'

'Why not? You'd be good at it.'

'An autistic psychologist, who doesn't understand emotions, according to Simmonds at least. How on earth would that work?'

'Its not that you don't understand them, its that you can't pick them up instinctively, your brain isn't wired that way, so you've taught yourself to analyse, to interpret and that gives you a unique skill set.'

'No disrespect Matt, but after I've left here I never want to set foot in a psychiatric institution again. Now will you please just piss off and let me sleep.'

Matt chuckled. 'If thats what you want. Your medication's here, Sarah left it for you.'

He handed Sherlock the pot. 'Where is Sarah?' Sherlock asked, looking round for her.

'Gone on a break, while you were arguing with me. So if you really don't want to talk I'll go and sit at the desk and read my book for a while until she comes back.'

'Why won't they leave me on my own?' Sherlock asked, swallowing the tablets.

'Simmonds thinks that you're high risk. Again. Thinks you might try to do something to yourself.'

'Why?'

'Despair, Sherlock. When people think that there's no way out of a situation, they try to take control any way that they can.'

'He thinks that he's driven me to that?'

'In a strange way I think that he hopes that he has.'

'Why is he doing this Matt?'

'Honestly? I don't know. Sometimes I think that he doesn't know himself, but its as if he's got himself so tightly bound into this whole thing that he can't get out. Your father has an impressive hold over him. Maybe one day you'll be able to find out what that lever is, but whatever it is, he won't go against your father, which means that he will do absolutely anything to keep you here.' Matt hesitated, and the fact wasn't lost on Sherlock.

'He changed the name on my section papers, didn't he?'

'Yes. A few days ago, I think that was part of the reason for the delay in the discharge meeting.'

'How did you find out?'

'James Harrison told me. As the original person on the papers he was automatically notified.'

'So now there's no way of getting me out.'

'There are lots of ways of getting you out. You could appeal against your section, but I wouldn't recommend it. Neil Simmonds would pull the violent and dangerous card again and no social worker in the country would argue against the section then. An independent psychiatric opinion and a judge's order is your best bet, but for that you need James Harrison, and the way you're feeling today it would be difficult even for him to argue for your release.

'My advice is give it a few days, let the dust settle, Simmonds is going to be expecting something from you. Argument, appeal, anything. Lets lull him into a false sense of security. I suggest that you take the medication, get your head straight and then talk to James Harrison at the weekend.'

'What about Simmonds? I can't be civil to that man, Matt, I just can't. If he comes near me I am highly likely to either throw something at him or say something that I shouldn't.'

'So don't talk to him. If he comes to see you, tell him that you want to see a different psychiatrist, its in your rights after all. Caitlin for preference, or one of the other consultants.'

'He'll never agree. He'll wriggle out of it somehow. He'll say that its the wrong time, or give me some Freudian bullshit about him reminding me of my father.'

'Does he remind you of your father?'

'In that he's an arrogant, cruel, arse of a man, yes. But he's nowhere near as intelligent as my father.'

'That aside, if he does insist on coming to see you I would just refuse to talk to him. Tell him you're too tired and pretend to go to sleep.'

'Wouldn't take a lot of pretending,' Sherlock said yawning, its all I can do to stay awake at the moment.'

'Then I'll leave you to sleep. Just - don't let him get to you Sherlock. You're worth a thousand times more than him, and one day I'm sure that you'll prove it.'

'One day I'll find a way to make him realise that what he's doing is wrong,' Sherlock said, eyes already closing.

'One day I'm sure that you will,' Matt said softly, resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder for just a moment before taking up his post on the seat by the door.


	60. Chapter 60

Sarah reluctantly handed Sherlock over to Clare's care for the next few days, meeting up with her and Matt in the pub's beer garden yet again that evening, to say all the things that they couldn't discuss in handover. Frustrated as they all were at the events of the last few days, Matt remained confident that Mycroft would get his brother home, one way or another.

'What if he can't get him off the section?' Clare asked.

'You don't know Mycroft Holmes,' Matt replied darkly. 'If he can't get Sherlock out of here then nobody can. Trust me, he'll find a way.'

The next few days brought more of the same. A very quiet, subdued Sherlock, who did as he was told and took his medication, other than the carbemazepine which Clare and Sarah were duly giving to him, and allowing him then to hand back to them to be disposed of later. He spoke little, only ate if he couldn't avoid it, and slept as much as possible.

Coming to review him on the Wednesday, Caitlin found that seeing him so dejected only strengthened her resolve. 'Neil Simmonds has got him exactly where he wants him,' she said to Clare. But at least this way I can honestly tell him that Sherlock is too drowsy on the medication for him to get anything resembling normal conversation out of him. Its almost true, and then with luck he'll leave him alone until next week. Any news from his brother?'

James Harrison had decided to bring Caitlin into his confidence and she was proving to be a useful ally.

'Not yet,' Clare said. 'He needs to wait for James Harrison to come and review Sherlock and James can't back down from Edinburgh until Saturday. He's got clinical commitments all week. Once Mycroft has James' report then he can go to a judge with the evidence and ask for the section to be lifted.'

'So we're looking at early next week?'

'Hopefully.'

'Good. I'll miss him. He's certainly been a challenge, but home's the best place for him. And the other thing?'

'James is on the case,' Clare said quietly. 'Gathering evidence. With luck it will all come at the same time.'

'And not before time,' Caitlin said, equally quietly, aware that they were sitting at the nurse's station and could easily be overheard.

'So, we keep him sedated for the rest of today and then review things tomorrow. Its a shame that he's missing his CBT sessions, see if you can get him awake enough to see Dominic tomorrow, but other than that let him sleep. Is he eating?'

'Not much, he'll drink the odd milkshake, but thats pretty much it.'

'Why do I get this feeling of deja vu?' Caitlin said with a sigh. 'Do what you can, Clare. Maybe Matt can get him talking.'

'Sarah said he talked to him a bit yesterday, but today he's just not interested. He's still processing it all.'

The next day brought more of the same. Even when the sedation was cut down, Sherlock was still too sleepy from the new drugs to stay awake for long. Neil Simmonds dared a visit in the morning, waking him from sleep and was met by a glare and a drowsy 'Piss off,' before Sherlock rolled over and went back to sleep.

'I'll come back tomorrow,' he said to Clare. 'Cut back on his lorazepam.'

'He's only had a milligramme this morning,' Clare told him, 'the rest is the carbemazepine.'

'Fine then continue with it as it is. At least he's less violent like this.'

'Tosser,' Sherlock said a calculated thirty seconds after the door had clicked shut behind him.

'So you are awake,'

'Of course. Worked though, didn't it?' he yawned. 'Convinced him enough to leave me alone.'

'Until tomorrow.'

'I think I might be very sleepy tomorrow as well.' Sherlock said drowsily.

'Don't blame you,' Clare told him.

And so remarkably every time Neil Simmonds tried to see Sherlock for the remainder of the week he was asleep, and that seemed to be just the way he wanted him. 'See if you can cut down the sedation over the weekend,' he instructed Clare at the Friday meeting, and we'll try to restart his therapy sessions on Monday.

'With Caitlin,' she asked?

'For some sessions, but I think that I should also try to get him to engage with me again.'

'You're not worried that...'

'That he'll get violent. Hopefully not, not on the increased dose of carbemazepine, and if he does then we can think again.'

Meaning more medication, Clare thought, groaning, when he had enough side effects from the ones that he was already on. When was Mycroft Holmes going to get his brother out of here, because if things went on the way they were, she was seriously tempted to bundle him into the boot of her car and break him out herself.


	61. Chapter 61

Saturday morning, and a soft knock on the door heralded the arrival of James Harrison.

'How are you?' he asked Sherlock, once he had installed himself in the chair by the bed. Sherlock looked tired he thought, and a little dazed.

'Dopey,' Sherlock said, confirming his suspicions.

'I hear that they've started you on carbemazepine.'

'You heard correctly.'

'And I'm presuming that you don't like it.'

'I can't stay awake,' Sherlock told him, 'my head isn't working at all, I can hardly talk, and I'm so wobbly that I can't even walk to the bathroom on my own.'

'Ataxic?' he looked at Sarah who nodded.

'So it appears. Caitlin knows, she found it yesterday. Discussed it with Neil Simmonds who said that in his experience it was likely to be a temporary side effect and we should put up the dose.'

'That man,' James Harrison said, 'is becoming positively dangerous. You need to stop taking the carbemazepine, Sherlock. You've done it before. Palm it. Dispose of it, just stop taking it. Ataxia isn't just an unpleasant side-effect, it can be dangerous.'

'Simmonds will find out,' Sherlock said dully.

'Only if he checks levels, and there won't be time for that. We're hoping to get you out of here by the middle of next week.'

'Mycroft?'

'He's on the case, just gathering together everything that we need to put it to a judge. Thats one of the reasons that I'm here. To provide an independent psychiatric opinion for the meeting with the judge. But before we get to that, tell me what happened at the discharge meeting.'

Sherlock gave a characteristic shrug. 'He got me angry. Again.'

'And you threw a water jug at him?'

'No, not at him. I threw it at the wall behind him.'

'Which shows restraint.'

'So Matt tells me.'

'And calculation, and a control of your violent tendencies. I'll put that in the report. You realise that he would have deliberately provoked you into it, to prove his point, to gather evidence against you?'

'Yes and thats what's so frustrating. I played straight into his hands The man's blatantly stupid, and yet he can still outmanoeuver me.'

'He's had a lot more practice, and you're on a lot of medication, remember.'

'Medication which stops me thinking straight.'

Sarah caught James Harrison's eye. 'Don't even think about it,' she said to Sherlock. 'Remember what happened last time you tried to stop it?'

'Who said anything about stopping it?' Sherlock said innocently.

'You didn't have to. I know exactly how your mind works. Sherlock, if you want me to come home with you, to keep looking after you, then you have to promise me that you'll keep taking your medication as I give it to you, which won't necessarily be as Simmonds prescribes it. If not, then you're on your own, because I won't stand by and watch you getting back into that state again. Agreed?'

'Fine, I'll take my medication.' Sherlock muttered grumpily.

'Good to see someone can make you see sense,' James Harrison said. 'So you know the plan. Sarah comes home with you and will stay with you until you're well. I will come and see you when I'm down for the weekends, and will be available for phone advice at any other time. You will take your medication, you will see the psychologist that I arrange for you, and you will get well. Yes?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes.'

'Because I need you to understand this, Sherlock. What I say in my independent assessment has to be honest and accurate, because it is my professional reputation which is at stake. If I recommend that you are safe to discharge and you stop taking your medication or run away and come to harm then it is my neck that is on the line.'

'I never said anything about running away,' Sherlock said cagily.

'You did to Matt,' James Harrison held up a hand to stem Sherlock's protest. 'He told me because he was concerned. Remember when he told you that he would only breach your confidentiality if you threatened to blow up the Houses of Parliament? Well this is similar.'

'That was before I knew that Sarah was coming home with me,' Sherlock said sulkily. 'I'll stay if Sarah's there, or I'll talk to her before I do anything.'

'Promise?'

'Yes, of course.' He looked at Sarah. 'You know that, right? I wouldn't do anything without telling you.'

'Good,' she smiled at him, 'because I'm sort of putting my reputation on the line too.'

'I know.' He looked down and frowned. James Harrison allowed him a few minutes of silent contemplation before saying. 'So here is what I suggest. We can do the assessment now, or we can have a normal session today and do the assessment tomorrow, which would you rather?'

'Now, I want to do it now. Get it over with. What do I have to do?

'Just answer some standard questions. Some of it will come from our previous conversations, but I need to ask you questions about delusions, hallucinations, voices, that kind of thing to make the report complete.'

Sherlock shrugged, 'Okay.'

'First and foremost I need to know - do you want to go home? Do you feel ready, and do you think that you'll be safe there?'

'Yes, I want to go home.'

'And you won't hurt yourself or anyone else.'

'No, of course not. The biggest risk is to Simmonds if I stay here.'

'I'm going to pretend that you didn't say that,' James Harrison said. 'And voices? Are you hearing any?'

'Not for weeks now.'

'And do you still think that there's a conspiracy to keep you here?'

'By Neil Simmonds and my father yes, not by anyone else.'

'I'll record that as no delusions, because that is unfortunately true, and therefore not a delusion. Anything else?'

'No.'

'And do you accept that you've been ill.'

'Of course.'

'With what?'

'I accept that I have been depressed, that I'm still depressed. I know that I've been paranoid, but its getting better.'

'Do you think that you're still paranoid?'

'I think that I'm still suspicious yes, but do you blame me?'

'Not remotely, but do you recognise that this is part of your illness.'

'Yes, and I try to temper it by asking other people for their opinion on things, rather than relying on my own.'

'Good.' James Harrison paused. 'Okay?'

'Yes its just - weird, talking to you like that. It feels like talking to Simmonds.'

'Probably because I usually let you be in control much more than Simmonds does. This is more structured because it has to be. Do you need a break?'

'No, its fine. I'd rather get it over with.'

James Harrison nodded. 'What are you looking forward to about going home?'

'Getting out of this place, and getting away from Simmonds, but don't put that. I'm looking forward to being able to do what I want and not what I'm told to do.'

'Anything else?'

Sherlock rubbed the side of his face, aware that he only did that when he was feeling uncomfortable, aware that James Harrison knew that too. 'I don't remember anything about home,' he said quietly. 'Its hard to look forward to something that you can't remember.'

'Will you take your medication when you get home?'

'Yes.'

'As its prescribed?'

'Yes, because much as I hate having my brain numbed like this, I don't want to feel like I did before, so I'll take it. Not forever, I can't promise that, but until somebody sensible tells me that its okay to cut back on it.'

'If you get fed up with it in the future would you stop taking it?'

'Not without discussing it with somebody first, no.'

'Good. And in the unlikely event that things get worse when you get home, what would you do?'

'Talk to Sarah, talk to you. Ask for help.'

'Why?'

'I told you, because I don't want to go back there, not ever.'

'So you would be safe.'

'I think so.'

'What about the future. Have you thought about what you want to do when you've recovered from this?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Go back to school I guess, if I can. Study, do my A-levels certainly, although staying at home would be easier than going back to school, I don't think that I could cope with that, not yet. I thought maybe Mycroft could get me a tutor.'

'That sounds positive.'

'It does, doesn't it.'

James Harrison nodded. 'Thats probably about it. Were you telling the truth?'

'Of course. So can I go home?'

'Yes, I think so. In my opinion you would be safe. You're still depressed, still a little paranoid, but you have insight, you're complying with medication and you're certainly not sectionable anymore. You have a safe place to go to, and family to take responsibility for you, so my recommendation will be that the section should be lifted and you should be allowed home, if that is what you want.'

'It is.'

'And unofficially if things did get worse again, would you come to Scotland?'

'They won't, but if I had to then yes. As long as I could be away from Simmonds it would be fine.'

'Sherlock,' James Harrison hesitated. 'I want to put an official complaint in about Neil Simmonds. I believe that his treatment of you, and I suspect of other patients has bordered on negligence and almost abuse. Your brother, will of course wish your name to be kept out of it.'

'I don't want him to do this to anyone else,' Sherlock said quietly. 'I want him stopped. What do you want, a statement?'

'Possibly. People from the GMC might want to come and talk to you. Not yet, when you're a little better, and only with either myself or somebody that you trust there. How would that be?'

'Fine, it would be fine.'

'Good,' James Harrison said. 'So hopefully the next time that I see you it will be at home. But anytime, anytime at all that you want to talk to me, I'm just on the end of the phone. Sarah has got my number. Okay?'

'Okay.'

James Harrison looked at him for a moment and considered.

'What are you worried about?' he asked.

'Going home,' Sherlock said honestly, staring at him with that clear unflinching, unforgiving gaze that he had. 'What if I muck it up? What if it all goes wrong again?'

'Then you can come to Scotland, but it won't come to that, Sherlock.'

'How do you know?'

'I don't know for sure, nothing is certain, there's always a risk involved. But you're strong, Sherlock, much stronger than you give yourself credit for. If Neil Simmonds hadn't interfered then you would have been home months ago. You're getting better despite everything that has happened here, not because of it. Time to go home.'


	62. Chapter 62

Freed for the effects of the carbemazepine, and encouraged by his conversation with James Harrison, Sherlock woke the next morning without his characteristic feeling of dread.

'Coming outside?' Matt asked, poking his head round the door midmorning.

'If you can find a wheelchair. I'm still wobbly from the medication.'

'Done,' Matt said with a grin, disappearing to find one, and reappearing triumphantly a few minutes later.

'So, home this week I hear,' he said when they were installed on their usual bench a short while later.'

'Hopefully, yes.'

'There's no hopefully about it. When you've got the combined powers of Mycroft and James Harrison on side, you can't lose.'

'True. Mycroft never seems to lose at anything,' Sherlock said quietly.

'I wanted to talk to you.' Matt said, 'before you went home.'

'About what.'

'About life the universe and everything,' Matt grinned. 'I wanted to pass on a bit of wisdom, so can you just bear with me and just let me say this? I'm very aware that I might not get another chance to talk to you properly before you go. And unless you've changed your mind about me coming to visit, its only going to be letters after this, and they're just not the same.'

'You're not going to telling me the facts of life are you?' Sherlock said, 'because you're a few years too late for that.'

'No, I wanted to talk to you about something else. Look, I know that you're worried about leaving here, and I know that you think that there isn't anything outside for you. Thats how I felt too.' He took a deep breath, 'I thought it might help you to hear my story - the bits of it that you don't know.'

'Okay,' Sherlock said uncertainly.

'I told you that I was abused right? What I didn't tell you is that it was my step-dad, and he didn't just hit me. He did - other stuff too. My real Dad had taken off when I was little, five or six, my Mum had had a string of boyfriends. She married my step-dad when I was eleven. He was already abusing me by then, but I couldn't tell her. She was so happy, happier than I'd ever known her and we finally had money, and I couldn't spoil that, so I just - put up with it. Kept my mouth shut. Then finally it got too much, I was fourteen and when he tried it one day when my Mum was out, I hit him. He went mad, started yelling at me, hit me back, then when my Mum came home told her that I had attacked him and that she had to put me into care because I was out of control. I was already doing drugs by then. Glue, weed, nothing too hard core, not yet, and getting into trouble with the cops on and off. Again nothing major, shop lifting, bit of criminal damage. Usual stuff.'

'So I tried to tell my Mum what had happened and she called me a liar and threw me out of the house. I slept rough for a few nights, then the police picked me up and I ended up in a kids home. Got into more trouble, in and out of foster homes and children's homes. Eventually it all got on top of me and I smoked too much weed and ended up in a place not unlike this.'

'But my foster-mum at the time, she didn't give up on me. She kept on coming to visit me, and she told me that even though it felt like my life had turned to shit and I had nothing, in a way I was lucky, because I was free from the burden of expectation, thats how she put it. She was, is, a bright, bright woman, not academically bright, but really good at reading people and getting through to them. Saying the right thing. She told me that I could stick two fingers up to my old family and that meant that I had my whole life to do whatever I wanted with, without having to worry about what they wanted me to do. She also told me that its not about the family that you're born with, its the family that you chose; the friends that you gather around yourself, thats what matters. And then she told me that if I chose her family there was a home for me there as long as I wanted it, no matter what.'

'What are you saying?' Sherlock asked.

'I'm saying that yeah sure, life's dealt you a crap hand in lots of ways. Your father's an arse, and a malicious arse at that, your Mum's dead, and your brother's, well he's just Mycroft and while I'm convinced that he does care, he will always try to control you because thats what he does. But the way I see it you have a few things that I didn't. You've got a home to go to, and a brother who cares about you, and you've got the money to do whatever you want to do. You've also got a phenomenal brain that you can use for just about anything that you chose to.

'So my point is this - you can do anything that you want to with your life - just, do it, please. Don't waste the next fifty or so years thinking about whats happened and what you don't have. Just get on with it. Lecture over.'

'Thanks - I think,' Sherlock said uncertainly.

Matt laughed. 'Have you listened to anything that I just said.'

'Um, yes.'

'And?'

'And I'll think about it.'

'Good. Thats all I'm asking.'

And then they sat and talked about other things. About what life might be like outside, about when Sherlock might be able to start studying for his A-levels again, and some of the time they just sat in companionable silence, enjoying each others company for what they were both aware might well be the last time.


	63. Chapter 63

The afternoon brought a visit from Mycroft, waking Sherlock from a post-lunch sleep with Sarah's soft knock, and the buzz and click of the door.

'Mycroft's here,' she said smiling as she stood back to let him in. Sherlock scrabbled to an upright position, rubbing his eyes.

'Asleep again?' Mycroft asked dryly.

'You try staying awake on the amount of medication that I'm on,' Sherlock grumbled. 'When can I come home?'

'Soon, if you behave yourself and don't throw anymore water jugs. I'm seeing a judge tomorrow with James Harrison's statement, and one from the nursing staff here. Its his decision ultimately, but I don't see how he can refuse. Once we have a judgement lifting the section then I'll get you out of here as soon as I can.'

'Can Simmonds appeal against the section being lifted?'

'He can, but he won't.'

'Why not?'

'Lets just say that by Monday he should have other things to worry about.'

'The GMC?'

'Possibly.'

'James Harrison said that you would be against that.'

'I'm against your name being dragged into it, not against the principle of it.'

'I want to be involved, Mycroft. I want to help stop that bastard,' Sherlock stopped and took a deep breath to control his anger, just as he had been taught. 'I want to stop him being able to do this to anyone else,' he said.

'We'll see.'

'No, we won't see. I'll see and I'll decide, because its my life and my decision.'

Mycroft threw his head back and gave a sarcastic laugh. 'Welcome back. Thats more like the Sherlock that we all know and try to love despite everything. Fine, but not yet. Give it a few weeks at least. Can we agree on that?'

'I won't forget about it Mycroft.'

'No, I'm sure that you won't.'

'So you won't stop me?'

'Not if you're sure and you're aware of the implications, no.'

'Good.'

Mycroft hesitated. Mycroft never hesitated. Sherlock was immediately alert. 'Sherlock,' he said, 'I need to talk to you about our father.'

'Is he dead?' Sherlock interrupted.

'No, he's not dead,'

'Shame,' Sherlock said mildly, 'but in that case I don't want to talk about him. Unless you're telling me that he's coming home, in which case I need to find somewhere else to go.

'He's not coming home, Sherlock.'

'In which case I don't want to talk about him.'

'You're not even slightly curious to find what has happened to him, how he is.'

'No.'

'Because...'

'Because caring is not an advantage,' Sherlock looked at his brother in a rare display of emotion. 'I hate him, Mycroft, haven't you worked that out yet? I want him dead, and I want him kept away from me. Until he's dead then I'm not interested in hearing how he is.'

'He's still your father, Sherlock.'

'Unfortunately, yes.'

'And you will still be living in his house.'

'No, I'll be living in my family house, and as long as he's not in it, thats fine.'

'You really can be remarkably stubborn sometimes.'

'Its a family trait.'

'Fine, if thats the way you want it.'

'And while we're on the subject, I don't want him to be my guardian any more. Can you do it? Just until I reach eighteen?'

'You can't chose these things, Sherlock, but in his current state, it is unlikely that my father will ever have the legal capacity to be your guardian again, and therefore that particular problem seems unlikely to arise.'

Sherlock looked at his brother sharply. 'You don't exactly sound upset about that either.'

'I get upset about very little, as you are well aware. As you say, its a family trait.'

'And you're sure that you can get me out of here?'

'Yes, I'm sure.'

'Because if you can't then I've been thinking...'

'No Sherlock, no harebrained schemes thank you. You need to trust me, I am going to get you home.'

'Soon?'

'Yes, Sherlock.' Mycroft sounded exasperated. 'I will get you home within the next few days. You have my word.'

'Good,' he hesitated and then said, 'Thank you, Mycroft.' The words came out as if they were a struggle.

'You're welcome,' Mycroft said, sounding equally uncertain. 'What exactly are you thanking me for, out of interest? '

'For not being your normal annoying, unhelpful self.'

'Now that,' Mycroft said, 'is more like it.'

When Mycroft left a short while later, Sherlock was feeling uncharacteristically positive. Home, at last, and Matt was right. He didn't have to answer to anyone anymore, not his father, not his teachers at school, not Neil Simmonds, and certainly not to Mycroft. His life was his own, his future was his own, unbounded by the wishes of his parents or anyone else. He could make his own way in the world without having to conform to what anybody expected him to do or to be. And that was a very interesting prospect indeed.


	64. Chapter 64

Monday morning brought a visit from Neil Simmonds at 9am sharp, obviously hoping to catch Sherlock awake.

He knocked on the door, obviously wary of flying books, and came into Sherlock's room to find him sitting in the chair by the window, hair still damp from the shower and reading.

'You're looking better,' he observed.

'Its amazing how much better I feel when I'm not being stuffed full of sedative drugs,' Sherlock snapped back, not looking up from his book.

'Side-effects from the carbemazepine getting better I see.'

'Yes, because I'm not taking it.'

'I see. And your other medication?'

'I'm taking as prescribed, yes.'

'And you're not taking the carbemazepine because...'

Sherlock snapped his book shut and pulled out a sheaf of papers from his bedside locker. 'Because all of these articles, which I found in reputed journals and textbooks in the library over the weekend, tell me that ataxia is a serious adverse reaction, not just a side effect, and that when its anything other than mild its an indication to stop the carbemazpine, not to double the dose to ensure that your patient keeps falling over.'

Putting the papers down on the table with more force than he intended to, he picked up his book and started to read again.

'You're angry.' Neil Simmonds said levelly.

'No,' Sherlock sighed, 'not really. Quite frankly you're too stupid to be angry at. I'm just a little bored with you, and now if you don't mind I would prefer to read my book than to talk to you.'

'Fine, if you don't want to take the carbemazpine, how about valproate?'

'I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Because the only thing that makes me angry, or used to make me angry, is you. I am no longer getting angry at you, despite your best efforts, and therefore I don't need any more medication.'

'Sherlock, are you going to put that book down and talk to me?'

'No.'

'Why not?'

'Because you're an idiot, and a dangerous idiot at that and I don't want to talk to you.'

'You're refusing to comply with treatment.'

'No, I'm refusing to be treated by you. I'll talk to Caitlin, or to one of the other consultants, but not to you.'

'You're under a section,'

'True,' Sherlock said calmly, continuing to read his book, 'but if you look at the bottom half of that sheaf of papers that I've just give you, you will see that its clearly stated in the article on sections that just because I'm under a section doesn't mean that I shouldn't be consulted about my treatment, asked for my opinion of proposed treatments, and allowed to discuss other treatment options. Oh and the thirteenth page from the bottom clearly states that I can ask to be treated by a different member of medical staff which I am now doing.' He looked up from his book and smiling pleasantly at Simmonds said, 'Now was there anything else? Only I want to finish this library book before lunch.'

'Sherlock what on earth did you say to Neil Simmonds,' Clare asked, coming into the room as Simmonds left without saying a word a couple of minutes later.

'Some home truths, why?'

'Because he left your room with a face like thunder, thats why.'

'Good,' Sherlock said cooly, turning another page on his book.

Clare grinned. 'Good for you,' she said.

Sherlock put his book down and grinned back. 'Did he look really pissed off?' he asked.

'More pissed off than I've ever seen him, yes.'

'Good,' Sherlock repeated, picking up his book again. 'No word from Mycroft?'

'Its still early, Sherlock. I'll let you know.'

'Could you get me a cup of tea?' Sherlock asked distractedly.

Clare smiled. 'Coming right up.'


	65. Chapter 65

Sherlock waited all afternoon for some word from Mycroft, but there was nothing. 'It might take a few days,' Clare said soothingly. 'Sometimes the judge wants to talk to the supervising consultant, or even come to see you themselves. There's no guarantee that anything will happen today, Sherlock. Try to stop worrying about it.'

But by six o'clock he was positively twitching, unable to settle to anything. Music was still out of the question, his fingers were still clumsy from the carbemazepine and wouldn't obey him, and that only made him more frustrated. He couldn't concentrate on reading and eventually he relented and let Clare give him some lorazepam so that he could sleep.

He was woken several hours later by the sound of raised voices in his room. It was dark outside and in place of Clare there was Laurie, the night nurse, standing protectively by his bed and looking concerned.

'Whats going on?' Sherlock asked, struggling to stay awake against the pull of the lorazepam.

'Your brother's here,' Laurie said, 'He wants to take you home. He's had your section overturned apparently.'

More raised voices, then there were people in the room, too many people. Mycroft, with several men in dark suits flanking him, the nurse in charge, security, and Simmonds himself. What was he doing here at this time? Of course, they wouldn't let him leave the building without Simmonds agreement.

'I've come to take you home, Sherlock,' Mycroft said.

'Finally,' Sherlock said dryly.

'I would prefer,' Neil Simmonds said, 'For you to remain here until the morning, when we could have a more rational discussion about this. Your brother, however is insistent that you wish to leave here as soon as possible.'

'Its my decision?' Sherlock said with a smirk. Really?'

'You are no longer under a section, so yes, it would appear so. If you wish to leave, then I cannot prevent you, I would however advise against.'

'Why?'

'I'm sorry?'

'Why don't you want me to go home?

'Because you're still unwell.'

'And being forced to talk to you, having my memories blanked by ECT, and being filled full of medication which makes me so sleepy and dizzy that I can't stand up is going to help is it?' He shook his head. 'I don't think so.'

'So you want to go home?'

'Yes, I want to go home.'

'Against medical advice?'

'No, not against medical advice.' Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear the sleep from it, and force his brain into action. 'James Harrison is my psychiatrist, He thinks that I'm ready to go home.'

'James Harrison provided the independent report, yes, but have you considered how it will be when you go home? With no support, and how about your medication?'

'There is a full supply of medication waiting for Sherlock at home,' Mycroft said crisply, 'prescribed by James Harrison, who as Sherlock correctly told you, will be overseeing his care. I have a private psychiatric nurse waiting for him in the car. He will not be without support.'

'Nevertheless I would advise against it.'

'I'm sure that you would,' Mycroft said dryly. 'Sherlock, what do you want to do?'

'I want to go home.'

'And there you have it.' Mycroft said, 'You have a judges decision in your hand, Dr Simmonds, which clearly states that an independent psychiatric opinion, together with supporting statements from both a psychologist and several members of nursing staff, has found that my brother is no longer a risk to himself or others, that the section is therefore lifted and my brother should be allowed to make his own decisions. He has just proved that he has capacity to do so. I would therefore suggest that you allow him to leave this establishment without creating any more obstructions.'

'I'll appeal against the judge's order,' Neil Simmonds said. 'Sherlock should remain here until then. I'll resection him if I have to, get a judge's order.

'On what basis?'

'He's a danger to others. He can be violent.'

'Only towards you it would appear. It would therefore seem sensible to remove him from your immediate vicinity. I would strongly advise against an appeal Dr Simmonds. I can assure you that you will find both the local constabulary, and all available judges - unsympathetic shall we say. Especially in light of events that have recently unfolded.'

'Meaning?'

'Meaning that even as we speak a letter is winging its way to you from the General Medical Council, to reach you at approximately the time that you would normally be tucking into your toast and marmalade in the morning. It details a significant number of serious concerns that have reached them about your management of patients in this establishment. It will, I assure, you be sufficient to prevent you from practising for some time, perhaps even permanently.'

'You reported me?' Neil Simmonds said, stunned.

'Not me, Dr Simmonds, no. Other medical personnel I understand, but I can assure you that the investigation will be - comprehensive.'

'You're blackmailing me.'

'Absolutely not. I can assure you that whatever happens in this room this evening, the investigation will still proceed, entirely unbiased by me. Now if you have nothing further to add, I suggest that you procure the self-discharge papers and allow me to take Sherlock home.'

Another security guard had slipped into the room and whispered something to Neil Simmonds. 'Ah the police are here,' he said, 'I suggest that we go outside and talk to them.'

'If you wish, 'Mycroft said with a sigh, 'Sherlock why don't you pack your things and get ready to leave.'

'Have you seen me trying to walk recently?' Sherlock asked wryly, still sleepy from the lorazepam.

'I'll help, 'Laurie said.

'He won't let me go will he?' Sherlock asked her as the door clicked behind Mycroft.

'I don't think that he's going to have a choice, ' Laurie said, as she started to pack his few things into a bag which had appeared as if by magic from a locked cupboard.

A short time later, Mycroft was back in the room, together with Simmonds and a female police officer. The police officer introduced herself and asked Sherlock a few questions. Did he want to go home? Would he be safe at home? Did he understand the implications of discharging himself?

Yes, yes, and yes. Then discharge papers appeared, which he signed and Mycroft countersigned, and before he knew it he was in a wheelchair and his way out to the car park, where he was guided into the back of a black limousine. Sarah was waiting in the car for him as promised, and gave him a conspiratorial smile. 'Okay?' she asked, but he could only nod, dazed by the speed of it all. A security man took up a seat on his other side, Mycroft in the front, with a uniformed chauffeur driving. Too confused to process any of this, Sherlock closed his eyes and slept as they drove out of the high gates in convoy with another car full of uniformed security men. What did Mycroft think that they were going to do, Sherlock wondered wearily, stop the car and try to drag him back?

He slept most of the way home, glad of Sarah's calm presence beside him, but unable to do much more than acknowledge her. He had a vague recollection of someone helping him out of the car, then of staggering, still half-asleep upstairs, and finally collapsing into a bed, his own bed he thought vaguely, as he fell asleep, how strange after all this time.


	66. Chapter 66

Sherlock woke to bright sunlight streaming into his room. Definitely his room, with all his books and experiments around him. It looked so cluttered after all that time in the bareness of the hospital. It had been cleaned, he could tell, things had been moved and put back at slightly the wrong angle, but he was home.

'Morning,' Sarah was sitting in the armchair in the corner of the room, clear of clothes for once. He normally hated the housekeeper coming in here to clean, he remembered, and there was rarely a surface free of clothes, books or his latest project. That was why his room looked so odd. It was tidy. And he was remembering. Finally.

'Am I dreaming?' he asked, uncertainly.

'No, you're really home. Do you remember?'

'Mycroft got me out.'

'Yes, he did.'

'Thank you,' Sherlock said quietly.

'You're welcome,' Sarah told him, not needing to ask him what he was thanking her for.

'And Matt and Clare?'

'I'll tell them, and you can write to them if you want, later, when you're feeling better.'

'Maybe. I'm not sure.' He frowned. 'Was it real?' he asked, rubbing the back of his neck.

'What do you mean?'

'Its just, being back here, it doesn't feel real. Did it really happen, was I really in that place, was I really ill?'

'Yes, of course. It was all real. Its normal to be a bit disorientated by everything thats happened. We'll try and cut down your medication now you're home if we can, but not yet. Give yourself a few days to settle in first.

'And you'll stay?'

'Until you're well, or you get fed up with me, yes. Its all arranged. Sure you're okay?'

'Yes - its just all a bit, strange.'

'Give yourself a few days to reacclimatise. You'll get there.'

'Give it time?'

She smiled at him. 'Exactly. Now how about some breakfast?'

'Yes, actually I'm starving.' He grinned at her. 'Its good to be home.'

Five minutes later there was a knock on the door, and a grey-haired woman bustled in with a tray. She looked vaguely familiar, but Sherlock had no idea who she was. She stopped just inside the door.

'Look at you, back where you belong,' she said, handing the tray to Sarah, who arranged it over his lap. It was a wooden tray with legs, and it looked strangely familiar. 'I made you your favourite' the woman was saying. ' You've got skinny away from my cooking, not that there was ever that much to you. We'll have to feed you up, now that you're home.'

Sherlock looked at Sarah in confusion, not sure how to react. 'Sherlock's lost his memory, from the treatment,' she explained, saving him from having to. 'He might not remember you. Sherlock, this is Mrs Shaw, the cook who works here. Apparently you used to spend a lot of time in her kitchen.'

'I don't remember, I'm sorry,' he said. 'You look familiar, though.'

The woman looked shocked. 'You don't remember me at all?'

'He doesn't remember much at all before his admission,' Sarah explained. 'They gave him ECT, too much ECT in my opinion, its effectively deleted his memories. Some of them will come back, its just going to take time, but you can all help him to fill in the gaps.'

Sherlock looked down at the tray. Scrambled eggs on toast, with bacon chopped into it, and a glass of fresh orange juice. 'But this is my favourite breakfast,' he said, 'I remember that now. You used to make it for me in the kitchen when I'd had an argument with my father.'

Mrs Shaw nodded. 'Yes I did. We'll get you right now you're home, you'll see.'

'Will the memories come back?' Sherlock asked Sarah through a mouthful of bacon and eggs, after Mrs Shaw had left the room.

'Some of them will, but the honest truth is that I don't know. I've never seen memory loss as profound as yours before. It was bad enough before they gave you the second round of ECT.'

'Its getting better, though. Slowly, but it is starting to come back, some of it at least.'

'And more should come back with time. Now that we've got you out of Elmhurst, there are no barriers to what we can try to help you to retrieve. Nobody is going to brand anything as delusional, so the new psychologist can help you with that on Friday. See what you can dig up.'

'Okay. Does James Harrison know that I'm out?'

'Yes. I phoned him this morning. He's coming to see you on Saturday.'

Sherlock looked down at his plate. It was empty, how had that happened? 'The food is much better here,' he said, seeing that Sarah had noticed too.

'I'm not arguing with that. Maybe you'll put some weight back on now that you're home.'

Mycroft had converted the bedroom opposite into a sitting room for him and Sarah, complete with squashy armchairs and sofas, a bookcase full of books and wonders of wonders, a television.

'My father hates television,' he said in surprise, as Sarah escorted him in there later on that morning, and settled him on the sofa.

'Your brother cares a great deal about you Sherlock,' Sarah told him. 'He wants you to get well.'

'Shame my father doesn't feel the same way.'

Sarah hesitated for a split second too long. He looked at her. 'Just tell me,' he said.

'Your father isn't coming home, Sherlock. The bleed from the aneurysm did more harm than they thought. He's out of ITU, but he's not going to recover, and Mycroft has decided that he's better looked after in a nursing home than coming back here.'

'You mean its better than bringing him back here with me.' His brain was working better already, kicking back into life he could feel it. He felt safe here. For the first time in a long while, he believed that he could get better. And if he couldn't then being here, in this room, with books and television and Sarah, without people interrupting him and insisting he talked to them, without people telling him when to eat, when to sleep, what to do. That was fine, he could cope with that.

Sarah was talking, but he had phased out again. He wished that his concentration would come back. It had been worse since the carbemazepine, and it still hadn't returned to normal. Sarah had noticed and repeated it without him having to ask. 'I was just saying that Mycroft feels, as do I, that you are more likely to recover without having to face your father.'

'I never want to see him again,' Sherlock said. 'I hate him. I don't know why he did what he did, but I'll never forgive him.'

'Maybe not, and now is not the time to try, but one day you might be able to understand. Not to agree, but at least to comprehend the thought processes behind it.'

'I don't even want to try. In fact, I'd rather not think about it at all.'

'I know and thats fine, for now. One day you'll be ready to face it, but not yet, not after everything that has happened. Let it go, Sherlock, for now. Keep it in that box of yours until you're strong enough to be able to process it.'

'How did you know about my box?'

'Mycroft told me. Apparently thats how you coped with everything so long. You told him about it. Put it in the box and shut the lid, keep on as normal, sectioning away that part of your life. Its the same box that you talked to Dominic about isn't it?'

'He suggested it. I didn't tell him that I used to have one, I think that I'd forgotten about it. I didn't realise that I'd told Mycroft.'

'Its a useful coping mechanism, for now. But eventually you're going to have to take everything out of that box and work your way through it. Maybe not for months, or even years, but one day you will have to face it.'

'Why?'

'Because if you don't then it will always be there, like an abscess, rotting away and affecting the way that you interact with people, stopping you trusting, stopping you having normal relationships.'

He shook his head holding back the tears, suddenly overwhelmed by the enormity of what had happened, of his illness, of being home. 'Not now,' he said, 'I can't do this now.'

Sarah came and sat next to him, and put an arm round his shoulders. 'I know you can't and thats fine. So here's what we're going to do.I'm going to put the television on for you, get you some lorazepam and sit with you for a while, okay? You need something to take your mind off it. Shut the lid on that box for now. Can you do that?'

Sherlock nodded. In years to come he would realise that was exactly what he did. Shut the box, try distraction and then take some benzos and sleep if all else failed. Sarah was right, it was years before he addressed it, before he finally had a reason to open the box and face the demons inside.


	67. Chapter 67

Because I couldn't leave Sherlock like that.

Just for the record, the Kate in this story isn't me. I borrowed her name as a pen name, rather than the other way round. She's the same Kate who appears in The Girl In the Scarf, Descent, and a number of my other stories on here. She was created as a perfect partner for Sherlock, because if ever a man deserved a little happiness and understanding it was him.

* * *

Sherlock did get well, did get back to some semblance of normality. Mycroft found him a series of tutors, and then sent him to a local crammer for a year to do his A-levels, then on to Cambridge. Sarah stayed for six months, longer than she had expected, leaving only when she was sure that Sherlock was well, and would stay well. She stayed in touch with him for several years, exchanging letters with him during his time at University and beyond, and she remained one of the few people who he would talk to on the phone, who he felt that he could trust without needing to see their face and body language to be able to interpret what they were thinking.

Sherlock's father never came home. He survived for nearly two years after Sherlock's return home, unable to speak, unable to do anything unaided, a shell of the man who had created such terror in his son.

Sherlock refused to go to see him, despite Mycroft's attempts protestations, and when he died Sherlock only attended his funeral to make sure that the bastard really was inside the coffin. Afterwards he bypassed the wake in the downstairs of the house, and went straight to his room where he pulled the curtains, turned out the lights and took enough lorazepam to make him sleep for eighteen hours straight.

The next day, Mycroft asked him to go for a walk with him, and took him to the outbuilding from his nightmares. There was nothing left but a pile of ash. 'I had it burnt down this morning,' Mycroft told him. 'It seemed fitting.'

They never spoke of it again. Sherlock knew that Mycroft worried about him, that in some way he felt responsible for what had happened, but neither brother was good at expressing their emotions. Sherlock both resented his brother's interference and relied on it. Even at university, when he stopped taking his medication and allowed himself to fall, he knew that his brother would be there to catch him before he hit the bottom. Knew that if he took to his room at college for more than a couple of days, eventually the door would open, and Mycroft would be there, to scoop him up and take him home until it got better.

It was never as bad again as the first time. Episodes would last days, or at worst a week or two. Home, sleep, medication and he could function again. James Harrison, alerted by Mycroft, phoned Sherlock after the first episode, regretting already that after over a year of treating him remotely he had finally handed over his care to a psychiatrist in Cambridge.

'You could have phoned me,' he told Sherlock.

'I could, but you would have told me to stay on medication.'

'Did you talk to Dr Clarke first?'

'You know that I didn't. You've phoned her haven't you? She told you that I missed my last two appointments.'

'She's a good psychiatrist, Sherlock, but if you want me to recommend somebody else, then..'

'No, thats not the point. I don't want to see a psychiatrist, although I don't mind talking to you occasionally. I just don't want to be on medication anymore. It slows me down, stops me thinking. Its been eighteen months since I was in Elmhurst. I want to be myself again.'

'So what have you stopped?'

'All of it.'

'Everything? The antidepressants, the lithium.'

'Yes, all of it, I told you. I wasn't stupid. I researched it, did it slowly. I've been off them for two months and it is better. My mind is working faster, its no longer an effort to think. I can work things out that other people can't.'

'So is this all about trying to prove that you're more clever than everybody else?'

'No, its about trying to be myself again, I told you.'

'So what happened this time?'

'I let things get out of hand. Took some stuff that I shouldn't have. It tipped me over the edge, and I couldn't get myself back up again. College phoned Mycroft, he came and got me. Now its better.'

'When you say stuff, I presume that you mean drugs.'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'After twenty years as a psychiatrist, there's not a lot that can shock me, Sherlock.'

'I'm not worried about shocking you, I just don't want to talk about it. Its done, in the past. I won't make that mistake again.'

'So you hit a low. How did you deal with it?'

'Took some lorazepam, went to bed, woke up, still felt dreadful, took some more and eventually ended up back here.'

'You could have asked for help. You could have phoned Dr Clarke.'

'And ended up back in a place like Elmhurst? I don't think so. Besides I told you, its better now.'

'How long did it last?'

'A couple of weeks maybe, end to end. It was nearly the end of term anyway. My tutor's sending me some work to catch up, and by next term I'll be fine again.'

'And if you're not?'

'Then I'll go back on medication. I just need to try without it, just for a while.'

James Harrison was sitting at his desk, head in hands, concentrating on Sherlock's voice, and wondering how, after all this time this boy, this young man as he was now could make him so concerned for his well being, and yet be so absolutely convincing in his need to do things his own way.

'Its your life, Sherlock. You're right. I just want you to know that if you need my help, at any time, then I'm always at the end of the phone.'

'I know that.'

'Do something for me will you? Let me check in with you occasionally, every few months or so, just to make sure that you're okay. I'd say phone me, but we both know that you won't.'

'Fine with me. But if I do that will you keep prescribing me the lorazepam? Dr Clarke won't anymore, not unless I go back to see her which I don't want to. And I need it - just to get through the lows.'

'Its a deal.'

Putting down the phone, James Harrison wondered what would become of Sherlock Holmes. He had the potential to become a great man, he thought. Despite everything, or maybe because of it. Because if one person had the determination to do things the unconventional way it was him.

In the year that he had treated Sherlock after he had left Elmhurst he had refused time and time again to talk about his father. 'Not now,' he would say, 'I don't want to talk about that yet. Lets talk about something else.' And so Sherlock's box would remain closed, chained and padlocked until he met Kate and gave her the key. Until he was strong enough to fight the demons, and had someone worth fighting them for.


	68. Chapter 68

Epilogue

**Present Day, 221B Baker Street.**

'Tell me about before,' Kate said, brushing a stray curl of hair back from his forehead.

'Which before?'

'When you were ill before. You never talk about it. Tell me why you were so against being admitted.'

They were lying facing each other in bed, limbs perfectly opposed, close enough to touch, close enough to hear each others slow breathing. This was what she had missed, Kate realised, this easy intimacy, this feeling that they could tell each other anything. This closeness that clothing and other people interrupted, that needed darkness and silence, and the feeling that the world outside could have stopped and the two of them would still go on unaffected.

Sherlock smiled slightly, that beautiful half smile that Kate loved so much, and reached out to trace the line of her face, her cheek, her jaw, her lips with a careful finger. 'You've never asked.'

'It wasn't the right time. Now, I think, maybe it is.'

He sighed, considered for a long moment, then finally said, 'It was like hell Kate, there's no other way to describe it. I was in that place for months, heavily sedated, filled with medication that I didn't want. I was convinced that I was being drugged or poisoned. My head was full of voices. I didn't know who to trust, I didn't know who to believe. It was just a mess.'

'Because of the paranoia?'

'Mainly, yes. Mycroft didn't help. He told me not to say anything about my father, but he wouldn't say why and I couldn't remember. He was trying to protect me I think, and to protect the family, but it just made things worse.'

Kate shook her head, 'I don't understand.'

'They gave me ECT, Kate, early on in my admission, when I stopped eating and drinking. It wiped my memory, almost completely. I had no idea of where I was or what had happened. The nurses would explain, I would just start to regain a few memories and then they would take me back to the treatment room and wipe it all again, over and over.'

'You never told me that you had ECT.'

'It didn't seem relevant.'

'And thats why you were so against having ECT this time?'

'Mainly, yes. Its rare, apparently, memory problems that profound, but I won't risk it again.'

'Did the memories come back?'

'Some of them. Most of my childhood memories were entirely wiped out. Primary school education, first day of school, birthday parties, everything. I remembered my mothers funeral but very little else. I couldn't even remember where I lived. I remembered the fields and the woods, strangely, but the house - no.'

'Primary school - so thats why you didn't know that the earth goes round the sun, as John is so fond of reminding you.'

'Exactly. Very basic stuff, that everyone knows I had to learn all over again. Basic skills were all there, reading, writing, maths, but hard facts are memory based, and they had all gone.'

Kate remembered the number of times that John had quietly teased Sherlock about his lack of basic knowledge, and Sherlock's silence about it. It must have brought up painful memories every time. 'Why didn't you tell John?' she asked. 'He would hate to think that he was teasing you about something with such a horrible cause behind it.'

'When it first came up I hadn't known John for that long. Easier to pretend that I'd deliberately deleted it than to admit that I had been a psychiatric inpatient and had my mind blanked for me.'

'But John had his own issues when he came back from Afghanistan. He would have understood.'

'Perhaps. But I couldn't talk about it Kate. I wanted that box kept locked.'

'And Mycroft? Why didn't he tell you what had happened? To help you understand.'

'Because he thought it was better that those memories remained lost. My father had made it very clear to him that any allegations from me would be interpreted as delusions. He had the director of the clinic in his pocket, and when I did start to remember, my father authorised a second course of ECT to wipe out the memories, and had my psychiatrist, the only one who I had told what had happened, transferred to another hospital. The other staff were ordered to treat it as yet another delusion, to be treated with medication and electricity. Mycroft was trying to protect me, I think, however misguided his attempts may have been.'

Kate was genuinely shocked. 'But Sherlock, thats abuse, negligence, whatever you want to call it, from the psychiatrist who went along with it, I mean.'

'Its gone, Kate, in the past. He was reported for it, he never got to do that to another patient again, but I was lucky in a way. There were staff in there who put their own jobs on the line to keep me safe, to get me out of there. I owe them my sanity if not my life.'

'So how did you get out?'

'Mycroft saw sense eventually, when he realised what my father was having done to me. He got an independent psychiatric opinion, got a court order to lift the section, and took me home. It wasn't easy, but it was better than being in that place, and I had good support. It took me a while to get back to normal, much longer than this time. I had less to get well for. My mother was dead, my father as far as I was concerned was a monster, although by then permanently disabled by the cerebral haemorrhage. I had Mycroft but other than that I was alone.

Kate was trying hard not to let her emotions show in her face, but Sherlock knew her too well. He smiled and cupped her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb as if he could wipe out the concern that he saw there.

'Its all right, Kate, truly. It was a long time ago. Its different now. I have you, and that was a reason to get well in itself. But if you want to know why I have problems trusting people and why I was so against being admitted this time round, well there's your answer.

'But to use ECT on a sixteen year old for that purpose. Sherlock, thats abuse.'

'Yes, I suppose that it was. The psychiatrist involved was investigated, I gave a statement. They restricted his practice for a while, but he's still working, although no longer allowed to use ECT I understand.'

'So Mycroft saved you in the end.'

'Yes he did. He went up against my father for the first time in his life. He chose a side.'

'Which explains a lot.' Kate said.

'Go on.'

'The responsibility, Sherlock, that he feels for you. The endless need to meddle in your life, or to protect you, depending on your perspective. Thats where it comes from isn't it?'

Sherlock shrugged, 'You're the empath Kate, not me. I've always assumed its about Mycroft's need to control, to win.'

'And yet this time he's been remarkably restrained when you think about it. He hasn't really interfered. He's left it to me and to John.'

'But can you imagine what would have happened if he'd discovered that I was ill at the beginning?'

'He would have had you sectioned and admitted. Of course he would. But would that really have been so bad?'

'It would have been exactly like before, Kate.' Sherlock said softly, 'And can you imagine how I would have reacted to that, given what I've just told you.'

Kate closed her eyes, images flooding into her head of a screaming, struggling Sherlock being forcibly sedated and bundled into an ambulance.

'Exactly,' he said quietly, 'and that is why I am so, so grateful to you and John for keeping me here.'

'But it didn't stop you being admitted.'

'No, but when it did happen it was at least partly under my control. Thats what you gave me. The ability to walk into that place voluntarily, knowing that it was the right thing to do, not to be carried in there kicking and screaming. That made all the difference in the world.'

'At least I know now why you're so against ECT.'

'I won't risk losing my memories, Kate, not again, and there's no guarantee that I wouldn't, so no, I don't want ECT, not now, not ever.'

'Okay,' she nodded, 'No ECT; but was it better this time, really?'

He smiled at her concern. 'So, so much better Kate. Truly. I knew that I was safe, and I knew that I was loved, even when I didn't want to be. And even at its worst, it wasn't like before. I knew who to trust this time. You, John, Ed Harris. You taught me that, I think, taught me how to trust. Before I couldn't trust anyone.'

'I can't bear to think about it. You must have felt so alone, it must have been terrifying.'

'Its gone, Kate. You can't change what happened, nobody can, but its over, finished. Time to move on.'

'So are all of the demons out of the box?'

'I think so. Its empty now, that box, cleaned out and put away.'

Kate hesitated. 'Should I - would it have been better to have left it locked?'

He shook his head. 'You couldn't have Kate. I had to open the box to be able to be with you, and that was what I wanted, so very much. Besides it was always going to open eventually; I was a time-bomb, thats what Ed Harris says, and when a psychiatrist says that you have to believe it. Sooner or later it was always going to explode, I'm just glad that you were there when it did.'

She kissed him gently, and then held him for a long, long time. Partly because she wanted to feel him close, and partly because she desperately wished that she had been there to comfort the scared, lost boy that he had been. Sherlock was right, she couldn't change what had happened to him, but she could be there for him now, and she could make sure that he never felt that alone again. She had meant what she had said to Mycroft all those months ago. When madness had come, they had faced it together. They had battled the demons in his box and they had won. And if it happened again then she would battle them again, time after time, until the war was over.

* * *

Thats it, finished. I'm going to leave Sherlock here, with Kate, with all of his demons out of the box and finally coming to terms with what happened to him. For anyone who is confused, the idea behind this epilogue is that he's fairly recently home after another episode of mental illness resulting in his first admission to a psychiatric unit since Elmhurst. Kate and John tried to keep him at 221B to start with, but eventually due to the events that I've written about in Descent, they had to admit defeat and persuade him to be admitted. Ed Harris is his psychiatrist. I'm aware of the similarity in names, but nothing else seems to fit and I wrote about Ed Harris long before I invented James Harrison, so I'm letting him keep his name.

If you want to read more about Sherlock and Kate and their backstory, have a look at my Girl In the Scarf story. I've also started exploring what might have happened immediately before this epilogue in Madness and Memory, and there's more of that story to come.

Thank you so, so much to all of you who have read this, especially those of you who have left reviews. I can't tell you how much it meant to know that people were reading this and enjoying it. Without the reviews I think I would have given up on it long ago.

If anybody is interested in the themes of the story, I got a lot of the initial inspiration from Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy, and the character of James Harrison is I think at least partly inspired by Rivers, in a less broken form. I also recommend James Frey's 'A Million Little Pieces,' which is more about recovery from alcohol and drug abuse than pure mental illness but still covers a lot of the same themes, and of course Alexander Master's amazing book, 'Stuart, A Life Backwards,' for a look at the impact that abuse can have on a life. Stephen Fry's wonderful documentary 'Secret Life of the Manic-depressive' is also available on youtube and provided me with a lot of insight and material for this story.

I'm not going to stop writing, so watch out for more here soon. If the next thing I write receives half such a positive response then I'll be happy.

Thank you again for reading, you're all wonderful x


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